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POINT    LACE, 

AND 

DIAMONDS 

BY 

GEORGE   A.   BAKER,   JR. 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Bad  Habits  of  Good  Society,"  "  West  Point,"  etc 

NEW  AND   REVISED   EDITION    • 
WITH   NUMEROUS   NEW    POEMS 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK   A.    STOKES   COMPANY 


Copyrighted  in  1875,  by  F.  B.  Patterson. 

Copyright,  1886, 
By  White,  Stokes,  &  Allen. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

Retrospection I 

A  Rosebud  in  Lent 4 

A  Reformer 5 

In  the  Record  Room,  Surrogate's  Office  ....  6 

De  Lunatico 8 

Pro  Patria  et  Gloria n 

After  the  German .15 

An  Idyl  of  the  Period 17 

Chivalrie 22 

A  Piece  of  Advice 24 

Zwei  Konige  auf  Orkadal 27 

A  Song , 28 

Making  New  Year's  Calls 30 

Jack  and  Me 34 

Les  Enfants  Perdus 37 

Chinese  Lanterns ....  40 

Thoughts  on  the  Commandments 43 

Marriage  d  la  Mode,     A  Trilogy »  45 


CONTENTS. 


x>AGE 

The  "  Stay-at-Home's  "  Plaint 58 

The  "  Stay-at-Home's  "  Paean 62 

Eight  Hours 65 

Sleeping  Beauty 68 

Easter  Morning 71 

A  Legend  of  St.  Valentine 75 

Frost-Bitten 79 

A  Song Si 

Old  Photographs 83 

lfLe  Dernier  Jour  d'un  CoiufamnJ" 85 

Christmas  Greens 88 

Lake  Mahopac — Saturday  Night 91 

Matinal  Musings 95 

A  Romance  of  the  Sawdust 99 

Pyrotechnic  Polyglot 105 

Fishing 108 

Nocturne ill 

Auto-da-FJ 113 

An  Afterthought 117 

Reductio  ad  Absurdum 120 

The  Mothers  of  the  Sirens 122 

Per  Aspera  ad  Astra 124 

The  Language  of  Love     =     .     .     , 126 


* 

OF  TKK 

(tJNIVERSITY  \ 


RETROSPECTION. 

T  'D  wandered,  for  a  week  or  more, 

Through  hills,  and  dells,  and  doleful  green'ryj 
Lodging  at  any  carnal  door, 

Sustaining  life  on  pork,  and  scenery. 
A  weary  scribe,  I  'd  just  let  slip 

My  collar,  for  a  short  vacation, 
And  started  on  a  walking  trip, 

That  cheapest  form  of  dissipation  — 

And  vilest,  Oh  !  confess  my  pen, 

That  I,  prosaic,  rather  hate  your 
1  Ode  to  a  Sky-lark  "  sort  of  men  ; 

I  really  am  not  fond  of  Nature. 
Mad  longing  for  a  decent  meal 

And  decent  clothing  overcame  me  ; 
There  came  a  blister  on  my  heel  — 

I  gave  it  up  ;  and  who  can  blame  me  ? 


RETROSPECTION. 


Then  wrote  my  "  Pulse  of  Nature's  Heart," 

Which  I  procured  some  little  cash  on, 
And  quickly  packed  me  to  depart 

In  search  of  "  gilded  haunts  "  of  fashion, 
Which  I  might  puff  at  column  rates. 

To  please  my  host  and  meet  my  reckoning  ; 
"  Base  is  the  slave  who  "  —  hesitates 

When  wealth,  and  pleasure  both  are  beckoning. 

I  sought ;  I  found.     Among  the  swells 

I  had  my  share  of  small  successes, 
Made  languid  love  to  languid  belles 

And  penn'd  descriptions  of  their  dresses. 
Ah  !  Millionairess  Millicent, 

How  fair  you  were  !     How  you  adored  me  ! 
How  many  tender  hours  we  spent  — 

And,  oh,  beloved,  how  you  bored  me  ! 
APRIL,  1871. 

Is  not  that  fragmentary  bit 

Of  my  young  verse  a  perfect  prism, 
Where  worldly  knowledge,  pleasant  wit, 


RETROSPECTION. 


True  humor,  kindly  cynicism, 
Refracted  by  the  frolic  glass 

Of  Fancy,  play  with  change  incessant  ? 
JUNE,  1874. 

Great  Ccesar  !  What  a  sweet  young  ass 
I  must  have  been,  when  adolescent  J 
AUGUST,  1886. 


A  ROSEBUD  IN  LENT. 

'\7'OU  saw  her  last,  the  ball-room's  belle, 

A  soufflJ,  lace  and  roses  blent ; 
Your  worldly  worship  moved  her  then  ; 
She  does  not  know  you  now,  in  Lent. 

See  her  at  prayer  !     Her  pleading  hands 
Bear  not  one  gem  of  all  her  store. 

Her  face  is  saint-like.     Be  rebuked 
By  those  pure  eyes,  and  gaze  no  more 

Turn,  turn  away  !     But  carry  hence 
The  lesson  she  has  dumbly  taught  — 

That  bright  young  creature  kneeling  there 
With  every  feeling,  every  thought 

Absorbed  in  high  and  holy  dreams 
Of  —  new  Spring  dresses,  truth  to  say 

To  them  the  time  is  sanctified 

From  Shrove-tide  until  Easter  dav. 


A  REFORMER. 

*\  7OU  call  me  trifler,  faineant, 

•^       And  bid  me  give  my  life  an  aim  !  — 
You  're  most  unjust,  dear.     Hear  me  out, 

And  own  your  hastiness  to  blame. 
I  live  with  but  a  single  thought  ; 

My  inmost  heart  and  soul  are  set 
On  one  sole  task  —  a  mighty  one  — 

To  simplify  our  alphabet. 

Five  vowel  sounds  we  use  in  speech  ; 

They're  A,  and  E,  I,  O,  and  U  : 
I  mean  to  cut  them  down  to  four. 

You  "  wonder  what  good  that  will  do  !  " 
Why,  this  cold  earth  will  bloom  again, 

Eden  itself  be  half  re -won, 
When  breaks  the  dawn  of  my  success 

And  U  and  I  at  last  are  one. 


IN    THE    RECORD    ROOM,    SURROGATE'S 
OFFICE. 

A     TOMB  where  legal  ghouls  grow  fat ; 

Where  buried  papers,  fold  on  fold, 
Crumble  to  dust,  that  'thwart  the  sun 

Floats  dim,  a  pallid  ghost  of  gold. 
The  day  is  dying.     All  about, 

Dark,  threat'ning  shadows  lurk  ;  but  still 
I  ponder  o'er  a  dead  girl's  name 

Fast  fading  from  a  dead  man's  will. 

Katrina  Hnrland,  fair  and  sweet, 

Sole  heiress  of  your  father's  land, 
Full  many  a  gallant  wooer  rode 

To  snare  your  heart,  to  win  your  hand. 
And  one,  perchance  —  who  loved  you  best, 

Feared  men  might  sneer  —  "he  sought  her  gold"— 


IN  THE  RECORD  ROOM,  SURROGA  TE'S  OFFICE.     ^ 

And  never  spoke,  but  turned  away 
Stubborn  and  proud,  to  call  you  cold. 

Cold  ?    Would  I  knew  !     Perhaps  you  loved, 

And  mourned  him  all  a  virgin  life. 
Perhaps  forgot  his  very  name 

As  happy  mother,  happy  wife. 
Unanswered,  sad,  I  turn  away  — 

4 '  You  loved  her  first,  then  ?  "    First  —  well  —  no  —^ 
You  little  goose,  the  Harland  will 

Was  proved  full  sixty  years  ago. 

But  Katrine's  lands  to-day  are  known 

To  lawyers  as  the  Glass  House  tract  ; 
Who  were  her  heirs,  no  record  shows  ; 

The  title  *s  bad,  in  point  of  fact, 
If  she  left  children,  at  her  death, 

I  've  been  retained  to  clear  the  title  ; 
And  all  the  questions,  raised  above, 

Are,  you  '11  perceive,  extremely  vital. 


DE    LUNATICO. 

HE  squadrons  ol  the  sun  still  hold 

The  western  hills,  their  armor  glances, 
Their  crimson  banners  wide  unfold,. 

Low-levelled  lie  their  golden  lances. 
The  shadows  lurk  along  the  shore, 

Where,  as  our  row-boat  lightly  passes, 
The  ripples  startled  by  our  oar, 

Hide  murmuring  'neath  the  hanging  grasses. 

Your  eyes  are  downcast,  for  the  light 
Is  lingering  on  your  lids  —  forgetting 

How  late  it  is  —  for  one  last  sight 
Of  you  the  sun  delays  his  setting. 

One  hand  droops  idly  from  the  boat, 

And  round  the  white  and  swaying  fingers, 


DELVNATICO. 


Like  half-blown  lilies  gone  afloat, 
The  amorous  water,  toying,  lingers. 

I  see  you  smile  behind  your  book, 

Your  gentle  eyes  concealing,  under 
Their  drooping  lids  a  laughing  look 

That's  partly  fun,  and  partly  wonder 
That  I,  a  man  of  presence  grave, 

Who  fight  for  bread  'neath  Themis'  banner 
Should  all  at  once  begin  to  rave 

In  this —  I  trust  —  Aldrichian  manner. 

They  say  our  lake  is  —  sad,  but  true  — 

The  mill-pond  of  a  Yankee  village, 
Its  swelling  shores  devoted  to 

The  various  forms  of  kitchen  tillage  ; 
That  you  're  no  more  a  maiden  fair, 

And  I  no  lover,  young  and  glowing  { 
Just  an  old,  sober,  married  pair. 

Who  after  tea,  have  gone  out  rowing. 


DELUNATICO. 


Ah,  dear,  when  memories,  old  and  sweet, 

Have  fooled  my  reason  thus,  believe  me, 
Your  eyes  can  only  help  the  cheat, 

Your  smile  more  thoroughly  deceive  me. 
I  think  it  well  that  men,  dear  wife, 

Are  sometimes  with  such  madness  smitten, 
Else  little  joy  would  be  in  life, 

And  little  poetry  be  written. 


OTNIVERSITY 


PRO  PATRIA  ET  GLORIA. 

HpHE  lights  blaze  high  in  our  brilliant  rooms  ; 
Fair  are  the  maidens  who  throng  our  halls; 
Soft,  through  the  warm  and  perfumed  air, 

The  languid  music  swells  and  falls. 
The  "  Seventh  "  dances  and  flirts  to-night  — 

All  we  are  fit  for,  so  they  say, 
We  fops  and  weaklings,  who  masquerade 

As  soldiers,  sometimes,  in  black  and  gray. 

We  can  manage  to  make  a  street  parade, 
But,  in  a  fight,  we  'd  be  sure  to  run. 

Defend  you  !  pshaw,  the  thought 's  absurd  ! 
How  about  April,  sixty-one  ? 

What  was  it  made  your  dull  blood  thrill  ? 
Why  did  you  cheer,  and  weep,  and  pray  ? 


PRO  PA  TRIA  ET  GLORIA. 


Why  did  each  pulse  of  your  hearts  mark  time 
To  the  tramp  of  the  boys  in  black  and  gray  ? 

You've  not  forgotten  the  nation's  call 

When  down  in  the  South  the  war-cloud  burst ; 
Troops  for  the  front !  "     Do  you  ever  think 

Who  answered,  and  marched,  and  got  there  first  ? 
Whose  bayonets  first  scared  Maryland  ? 

Whose  were  the  colors  that  showed  the  way? 
Who  set  the  step  for  the  marching  North  ? 

Some  holiday  soldiers  in  black  and  gray. 

Pretty  boys  in  their  pretty  suits  '  " 

"  Too  pretty  by  far  to  take  under  fire  ! ' 

A  pretty  boy  in  a  pretty  suit 

Lay  once  in  Bethel's  bloody  mire. 
The  first  to  fall  in  the  war's  first  fight  — 

Raise  him  tenderly.     Wash  away 
The  blood  and  mire  from  the  pretty  suit  ; 

For  Winthrop  died  in  the  black  and  gray. 


PRO  P ATRIA   ET  GLORIA,  13 

In  the  shameful  days  in  sixty-three, 

When  the  city  fluttered  in  abject  fear, 
'Neath  the  mob's  rude  grasp,  who  ever  thought  — 

"  God  !  if  the  Seventh  were  only  here  ! " 
Our  drums  were  heard  —  the  ruffian  crew 

Grew  tired  of  riot  the  self-same  day — 
By  chance  of  course  —  you  don't  suppose 

They  feared  the  dandies  in  black  and  gray ! 

So  we  dance  and  flirt  in  our  listless  style 

\Vhi\e  the  waltzes  dream  in  the  drill-room  arch, 
What  would  we  do  if  the  order  came, 

Sudden  and  sharp —  "  Let  the  Seventh  march  !  " 
Why,  we  'd  faint,  of  course  ;  our  cheeks  would  paie ; 

Our  knees  would  tremble,  our  fears  —  but  stay, 
That  order  I  think  has  come  ere  this 

To  those  holiday  troops  in  black  and  gray, 

"  What  would  we  do  !"    We  'd  drown  our  drums 
In  a  storm  of  cheers,  and  the  drill-room  floor 


PRO  PATRIA   ET  GLORIA. 


Would  ring  with  rifles.     Why,  you  fools, 
We  'd  do  as  we  've  always  done  before  ! 

Do  our  duty !     Take  what  comes 

With  laugh  and  jest,  belt  feast  or  fray  — 

But  we  're  dandies  —  yes,  for  we  'd  rather  die 
Than  sully  the  pride  of  our  black  and  gray. 


AFTER  THE  GERMAN. 

A  SOPHOMORE    SOLILOQUY. 

T>  LACKBOARD,  with  ruler  and  rubber  before  me, 

Chalk  loosely  held  in  my  hand, 
Sun-gilded  motes  in  the  air  all  around  me, 
Listlessly  dreaming  I  stand. 

What  do  I  care  for  the  problem  I've  written 

In  characters  gracefully  slight, 
As  the  festal-robed  beauties  whose  fairy  feet  flitted 
Through  the  maze  of  the  German  test  night ! 

What  do  I  care  for  the  lever  of  friction, 

For  sine,  or  co-ordinate  plane, 
When  fairy  musicians  are  playing  the  "  Mabel," 

And  waltzes  each  nerve  in  my  brain  ! 


OF  T 

"UNIVERSITY 


AFTER  THE  GERMAN. 


On  my  coat  's   powdered  chalk,  not   the  dust  of   the 

diamond 

That  only  last  night  sparkled  there, 
By  the    galop's  wild    whirl    shower'd   down    on    mv 

shoulder 
From  turbulent  tresses  of  hair, 

In  my  ear  is  the  clatter  of  chalk  against  blackboard, 

Not  music's  voluptuous  swell  ; 
Alas  !  this  is  life,  —  so  pass  mortal  pleasures, 

And,  —  thank  goodness,  there  goes  the  bell  I 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  PERIOD. 

IN  TWO   PARTS. 
PART   ONE. 

II  /^OME  right  in.     How  are  you,  Fred  ? 

Vte^ 

Find  a  chair,  and  get  a  light. 'v 

"  Well,  old  man,  recovered  yet 

From  the  Mather's  jam  last  night?" 
"  Did  n't  dance.     The  German's  old." 
' '  Did  n't  you  ?     I  had  to  lead  — 
Awful  bore  !     Did  you  go  home  ?  " 
"  No.     Sat  out  with  Molly  Meade. 
Jolly  little  girl  she  is — 

Said  she  did  n't  care  to  dance, 
'D  rather  sit  and  talk  to  me— 
Then  she  gave  me  such  a  glance ! 


i8  AN  IDYL  OF  THE  PERIOD 

So,  when  you  had  cleared  the  room, 

And  impounded  all  the  chairs, 
Having  nowhere  else,  we  two 

Took  possession  of  the  stairs. 
I  was  on  the  lower  step, 

Molly,  on  the  next  above, 
Gave  me  her  bouquet  to  hold, 

Asked  me  to  undo  her  glove. 
Then,  of  course,  I  squeezed  her  hand, 

Talked  about  my  wasted  life  ; 
'  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  win 

Some  true  woman  for  my  wife, 
How  I  'd  love  her  —  work  for  her  ! 

Hand  in  hand  through  life  we  'd  walk- 
No  one  ever  cared  for  me  — ' 

Takes  a  girl  — that  kind  of  talk. 
Then,  you  know,  I  used  my  eyes  — 

She  believed  me,  every  word  — 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  PERIOD 


Said  I  '  must  n't  talk  so '  —  Jove  ! 

Such  a  voice  you  never  heard. 
Gave  me  some  symbolic  flower, — 
'  Had  a  meaning,  oh,  so  sweet,' — 
Do  n't  know  where  it  is,  I'm  sure  ; 

Must  have  dropped  it  in  the  street. 
How  I  spooned  !  —  And  she  —  ha  !  ha  i  — 

Well,  I  know  it  wasn  't  right  — 
But  she  pitied  me  so  much 

That  I  —  kissed  her  —  pass  a  light." 


PART    TWO. 

Molly  Meade,  well,  I  declare  ! 

Who  'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you, 
After  what  occurred  last  night, 

Out  here  on  the  Avenue  ! 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  PERIOD. 


Oh,  you  awful  !  awful  girl  ! 

There,  don't  blush,  I  saw  it  all." 
"  Saw  all  what  ?  "     "  Ahem  !  last  night- 

At  the  Mather's  —  in  the  hall." 
"  Oh,  you  horrid  — where  were  you  ? 

Was  n't  he  the  biggest  goose  ! 
Most  men  must  be  caught,  but  he 

Ran  his  own  neck  in  the  noose. 
I  was  almost  dead  to  dance, 

I  'd  have  done  it  if  I  could, 
But  old  Grey  said  I  must  stop, 

And  I  promised  Ma  I  would. 
So  I  looked  up  sweet,  and  said 

That  I  'd  rather  talk  to  him  ; 
Hope  he  did  n't  see  me  laugh, 

Luckily  the  lights  were  dim. 
My,  how  he  did  squeeze  my  hand  ! 

And  he  looked  up  in  my  face 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  PERIOD. 


With  his  lovely  big  brown  eyes  — 

Really  it 's  a  dreadful  case. 
'  Earnest ! '  —  I  should  think  he  was  ! 

Why,  I  thought  I  'd  have  to  laugh 
When  he  kissed  a  flower  he  toolr, 

Looking,  oh  !  like  such  a  calf. 
I  suppose  he  's  got  it  now, 

In  a  wine-glass  on  his  shelves  ; 
It 's  a  mystery  to  me 

Why  men  ivill  deceive  themselves. 
*  Saw  him  kiss  me  ! '  —  Oh,  you  wretch ; 

Well,  he  begged  so  hard  for  one  — 
And  I  thought  there  'd  no  one  know  — 

So  I  —  let  him,  just  for  fun. 
I  know  it  really  was  n't  right 

To  trifle  with  his  feelings,  dear, 
But  men  are  such  stuck-up  things  ; 

He  '11  recover  —  never  fear. " 


CIIIVALRIE. 

T   T  NDER  the  maple  boughs  we  sat, 

Annie  Leslie  and  I  together ; 
She  was  trimming  her  sea-side  hat 
With  leaves  —  we  talked  about  the  weather. 

The  sun-beams  lit  her  gleaming  hair 
With  rippling  waves  of  golden  glory, 

And  eyes  of  blue,  and  ringlets  fair, 
Suggested  many  an  ancient  story 

Of  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  maids  of  old, 
In  durance  held  by  grim  magicians, 

Of  knights  in  armor  rough  with  gold, 
\Vho  rescued  them  from  such  positions. 

Above,  the  heavens  aglow  with  light, 
Beneath  our  feet  the  sleeping  ocean, 


A? 

OF  TBR 


CHIVALRIE. 


E'en  as  the  sky  my  hope  was  bright, 
Deep  as  the  sea  was  my  devotion. 

Her  father's  voice  came  through  the  wood, 
He  'd  made  a  fortune  tanning  leather  ; 

I  was  his  clerk  ;  I  thought  it  good 
To  keep  on  talking  about  the  weather. 


A    PIECE  OF  ADVICE. 

0  O  yoa're  going  to  give  up  flirtation,  my  dear, 

And  lead  a  lite  sober  and  quiet  ? 
There,  there,  I  do  n't  doubt  the  intention  's  sincere. 
But  wait  till  occasion  shall  try  it.  — 
Is  Ramsay  engaged  ? 
Now,  do  n't  look  enraged  ! 
You  like  him,  I  know  —  do  n't  deny  it  ! 

What!    Give  up  flirtation  ?    Change  dimples  for  frowns 
\Vhy,  Nell,  what 's  the  use  ?    You  're  so  pretty, 

1  hat  your  beauty  all  sense  of  your  wickedness  drowns 
When,  some  time,  in  country  or  city, 

Your  fate  comes  at  last, 
We  '11  forgive  all  the  past, 
And  think  of  you  only  with  pity. 


A  PIECE  OF  AD WC E.  »5 

Indeed  !  —  so  "  you  feel  for  the  woes  of  my  sex  !  " 
"  The  legions  of  hearts  you  Ve  been  breaking 
Your  conscience  affright,  and  your  reckoning  perplex, 
Whene'er  an  account  you  've  been  taking  !  " 
"  I  'd  scarcely  believe 

How  deeply  you  grieve 
At  the  mischief  your  eyes  have  been  making  !  " 

Now,  Nellie  !  —  Flirtation  's  the  leaven  of  life  ; 

It  lightens  its  doughy  compactness. 
Do  n't  always  —  the  world  with  deception  is  rife  — 
Construe  what  men  say  with  exactness  ! 
I  pity  the  girl, 
In  society's  whirl, 
Who  's  troubled  with  matter-of-factness. 

A  pink  is  a  beautiful  flower  in  its  way, 

But  rosebuds  and  violets  are  charming, 
Men  do  n't  wear  the  same  boutonnifre  every  day. 

Taste  changes.  —  flirtation  alarming  ! 


A  PIECE  OP  ADVICE. 


If  e'er  we  complain, 
You  then  may  refrain, 
Your  eyes  Oi  their  arrows  disarming. 

Ah,  Nellie,  be  sensible       Pr'ythee,  give  heed 

To  counsel  a  victim  advances  ; 

Your  eycsv  I  acknowledge,  will  make  our  hearts  bleed. 
Pierced  through  by  love's  magical  lances. 
But  better  that  fate 
Than  in  darkness  to  wait, 
Unsought  by  your  mischievous  glances. 


ZWEI    KONIGE   AUF  ORKADAL. 

FROM  THE   GERMAN. 


T 


HERE  sat  two  kings  upon  Orkadal, 
The  torches  flamed  in  the  Dillared  hall. 


The  minstrel  sings,  the  red  wine  glows, 
The  two  kings  drink  with  gloomy  brows. 

Out  spake  the  one,  —  "  Give  me  this  giri, 
With  her  sea-blue  eyes,  and  brow  of  pearl/* 

The  other  answered  in  gloomy  scorn, 
'  She  'D  mine,  oh  brother  !  —  my  oath  is  sworn*' 

No  other  word  spake  either  king  — 

In  their  golden  sheaths  the  keen  swords  ring. 

Together  they  pass  from  the  lighted  hall  — 
Deep  lies  the  snow  by  the  castle-wall. 

Steel-sparks  and  torch-sparks  in  showers  fall. 
Two  kings  lie  dead  upon  Orkadal, 


A  SONG. 

T  SHOULD  N'T  like  to  say,  I  'm  sure, 

I  should  n't  like  to  say, 
Why  I  think  of  you  more,  and  more,  and  more 

As  day  flits  after  day. 
Nor  why  I  see  in  the  Summer  skies 
Only  the  beauty  of  your  sweet  eyes, 

The  power  by  which  you  sway 
A  kingdom  of  hearts,  that  little  you  prize  — 

I  should  n't  like  to  say. 

I  should  n't  like  to  say,  I  'm  sure, 

I  should  n't  like  to  say 
Why  I  hear  your  voice,  so  fresh  and  pure, 

In  the  dash  of  the  laughing  spray. 
Nor  why  the  wavelets  that  all  the  while, 


A  SONG.  <*} 


In  many  a  diamond-glittering  file, 

With  truant  sunbeams  play, 
Should  make  me  remember  your  rippling  smile  — 

I  should  n't  like  to  say. 

I  should  n't  like  to  say,  I  'm  sure, 

I  should  n't  like  to  say, 
Why  all  the  birds  should  chirp  of  you, 

Who  live  so  far  away. 
Robin  and  oriole  sing  to  me 

From  the  leafy  depths  of  our  apple-tree, 

With  trunk  so  gnarled  and  gray  — 
But  why  your  name  should  their  burden  be 

I  should  n't  like  to  say, 


MAKING  NEW  YEAR'S  CALLS. 

QHINING  patent-leather. 

Tie  of  spotless  white  ; 

Through  the  muddy  weather 

Rushing  'round  till  night, 
Gutters  all  o'erflowing, 

Like  Niagara  Falls ; 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Making  New  Year's  calls. 

Rushing  up  the  door-step, 

Ringing  at  the  bell  — 
"  Mrs.  Jones  receive  to-day?" 
"Yes,  sir."     "Very  well." 
Sending  in  your  pasteboard. 

Waiting  in  the  halls, 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Making  New  Year's  calls. 


MAKING  NEW  YEARS  CALLS. 

Skipping  in  the  parlour, 

Bowing  to  the  floor, 
Lady  of  the  house  there, 

Half  a  dozen  more ; 
Ladies'  dresses  gorgeous, 

Paniers,  waterfalls, — 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Making  New  Year's  calls. 

"  Wish  you  Happy  New' Year  "  — 

"  Many  thanks,  I  'm  sure." 
"  Many  calls,  as  usual  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  think  they  're  fewer." 
Staring  at  the  carpet, 
Gazing  at  the  walls  ; 
Bless  me !  this  is  pleasant, 
Making  New  Year's  calls. 

"  Really,  I  must  go  now, 
Wish  I  had  more  leisure." 

"  Wont  you  have  a  glass  of  wine?" 
"  Ah,  thanks !  —  greatest  pleasure. 


MAKING  NEW  YEAR'S  CALLS. 


Try  to  come  the  graceful, 
Till  your  wine-glass  falls  ; 

Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 
Making  New  Year's  calls. 

Hostess  looks  delighted  — 
Out  of  doors  you  rush  ; 

Sit  down  at  the  crossing, 
In  a  sea  of  slush. 

Job  here  for  your  tailor  — 
Herr  Von  Schneiderthals  — 

Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

•   Making  New  Year's  calls. 

Pick  yourself  up  slowly 

Heart  with  anguish  torn. 
Sunday-go-to-meetings 

In  a  state  forlorn. 
Kick  a  gibing  boot-black, 

Gibing  boot-black  bawls, 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Making  New  Year's  calls. 


MAKING  NEW  YEAR'S  CALLS.  33 

Home,  and  woo  the  downy, 

But  your  soul  doth  quake, 
At  most  fearful  night-mares  — 

Turkey,  oysters,  cake. 
While  each  leaden  horror 

That  your  rest  appalls, 
Cries,  "  Dear  heart !  how  pleasant ; 

Making  New  Year's  calls," 


JACK    AND    ME. 

'.  —  All  right  ;  here  y' are,  boss! 
Do  it  for  jest  five  cents. 
Get  'em  fixed  in  a  minute,  — 

That  is,  '£  nothing  perwents- 
Set  your  foot  right  there,  sir. 

Mornin  's  kinder  cold,  — 
Goes  right  through  a  feller, 

When  his  coat  *s  a  gittin'  old. 
Well,  yes,  —  call  it  a  coat,  sir, 

Though  't  aint  much  more  'n  a  tear. 
Git  another  !  —  I  can't,  boss  ; 

Ain't  got  the  stamps  to  spare. 
Make  as  much  as  most  on  'em  !  " 

Yes  ;  but  then,  yer  see, 
They  've  only  got  one  to  do  for,  — 


JACK  AND  ME.  35 


There 's  two  on  us,  Jack  and  me. 
Him?— Why,  that  little  feller 

With  a  curus  lookin'  back, 
Sittin'  there  on  the  gratin', 

Warmin'  hisself ,  —  that 's  Jack. 
Used  to  go  round  sellin'  papers, 

The  cars  there  was  his  lay  ; 
But  he  got  shoved  off  of  the  platform 

Under  the  wheels  one  day. 
Fact,  — the  conductor  did  it,  — 

Gin  him  a  reg'lar  throw,  — 
He  did  n't  care  if  he  killed  him  ; 

Some  on  'em  is  just  so. 
He's  never  been  all  right  since,  sir, 

Sorter  quiet  and  queer  ; 
Him  and  me  goes  together, 

He 's  what  they  call  cashier. 
Style,  that  'ere,  for  a  boot-black, — 

Made  the  fellers  laugh  ; 
Jack  and  me  had  to  take  it, 


JACK  AND  ME. 


But  we  don't  mind  no  chaff. 
Trouble  !  —  not  much,  you  bet,  boss  ! 

Sometimes,  when  biz  is  slack, 
I  do  n't  know  how  I  'd  manage 

If  't  wa'n't  for  little  Jack. 
You  jest  once  orter  hear  him  : 

lie  says  we  need  n't  care 
How  rough  luck  is  down  here,  sir, 

If  some  day  we  git  up  there. 
All  done  now,  —  how's  that,  sir  ? 

Shines  like  a  pair  of  lamps. 
Mornin' !  —  Give  it  to  Jack,  sir, 

He  looks  after  the  stamps. 


LES  ENFANTS  PERDUS. 

"X  17  HAT  has  become  of  the  children  all  ? 

How  have  the  darlings  vanished  ? 
Fashion's  pied  piper,  with  magical  air, 
Has  wooed  them  away,  with  their  flaxen  hair 
And  laughing  eyes,  we  do  n't  know  where, 
And  no  one  can  tell  where  they  're  banished. 

"Where  are  the  children?"  cries  Madam  Haut-ton, 
"  Allow  me,  my  sons  and  daughters, — 
Fetch  them,  Annette  !  "     What,  madam,  those  ? 
Children  !  such  exquisite  belles  and  beaux  : — 
True,  they  're  in  somewhat  shorter  clothes 
Than  the  most  of  Dame  Fashion's  supporters. 

Good  day,  Master  Eddy  !     Young  man  about  town,  • 

A  merchant  down  in  the  swamp's  son  ; 
In  a  neat  little  book  he  makes  neat  little  bets : 


38  LES  ENFANTS  PERDUS. 

He  does  u't  believe  in  the  shop  cigarettes, 
But  does  his  own  rolling,  —  and  has  for  his  pets 
Miss  Markham  and  Lydia  Thompson. 

He  and  his  comrades  can  drink  champagne 

Like  so  many  juvenile  Comuses  ; 
If  you  want  to  insult  him,  just  talk  of  boys'  play,  — 
Why,  even  on  billiards  he 's  almost  blase, 
Drops  in  at  Delmonico's  three  times  a  day, 

And  is  known  at  Jerry  Thomas's. 

And  here  comes  Miss  Agnes.     Good  morning  !     "Bon 
jour  !  " 

Now,  is  n;t  that  vision  alarming  ? 
Silk  with  panier,  and  puffs,  and  lace 
Decking  a  figure  of  corsetted  grace  ; 
Her  words  are  minced,  and  her  spoiled  young  face 

Wears  a  simper  far  from  charming. 

Thirteen  only  a  month  ago,  — 

Notice  her  conversation  : 
Fashion  —  that  bonnet  of  Nellie  Perroy's  — 


LES  ENFANTS  PERDUS.  39 

And  now,  in  a  low,  confidential  voice, 
Of  Helena's  treatment  of  Tommy  Joyce,  — 
Aged  twelve,  —  that 's  the  last  flirtation. 

What  has  become  of  the  children,  then  ? 

How  can  an  answer  be  given  f 
Folly  filling  each  curly  head, 
Premature  vices,  childhood  dead, 
Blighted  blossoms — can  it  be  said 

"  Of  suck  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ?" 


CHINESE   LANTERNS. 

npHROUGH  the  windows  on  the  park 

A       Float  the  waltzes,  weirdly  sweet ; 
In  the  light,  and  in  the  dark, 

Rings  the  chime  of  dancing  feet. 
Mid  the  branches,  alla-row, 
Fiery  jewels  gleam  and  glow  ; 
Dreamingly  we  walk  beneath, — 
Ah,  so  slow  ! 

All  the  air  is  full  of  love  ; 

Misty  shadows  wrap  us  round  ; 
Light  below  and  dark  above, 
Filled  with  softly-surging  sound. 
See  the  forehead  of  the  Night 
Garlanded  with  flowers  of  light, 
And  her  goblet  crowned  with  wine. 
Golden  bright. 


CHINESE  LANTERNS. 


Ah  !  those  deep,  alluring  eyes, 

Quiet  as  a  haunted  lake  ; 
In  their  depths  the  passion  lies 
Half  in  slumber,  half  awake. 
Lay  thy  warm,  white  hand  in  mine, 
Let  the  fingers  clasp  and  twine, 
While  my  eager,  panting  heart 
Beats  'gainst  thine. 

Bring  thy  velvet  lips  a-near, 

Mine  are  hungry  for  a  kiss, 
Gladly  will  I  sate  them,  dear  ; 
Closer,  closer,  —  this,  —  and  this. 
On  thy  lips  love's  seal  I  lay, 
Nevermore  to  pass  away  ;  — 
That  was  all  last  night,  you  know, 
But  to-day  — 

Chinese  lanterns  hung  in  strings, 
Painted  paper,  penny  dips,  — 

Filled  with  roasted  moths  and  things- 
Greasy  with  the  tallow  drips  ; 


CHINESE  LANTERNS. 


Wret  and  torn,  with  rusty  wire, 
Blackened  by  the  dying  fire  ; 
Withered  flowers,  trampled  deep 
In  the  mire, 

Chinese  lanterns,  Bernstein's  band. 

Belladonna,  lily  white, 
These  made  up  the  fairy-land 
Where  I  wandered  all  last  night ; 
Ruled  in  all  its  rosy  glow 
By  a  merry  Queen,  you  know 
Jolly,  dancing,  laughing,  witching, 
Veuve  Cliquot. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  COMMANDMENTS. 

«  T    OVE  your  neighbor  as  yourself,"  — 

•*-?     So  the  parson  preaches  ; 
That 's  one-half  the  Decalogue.  — 

So  the  Prayer-book  teaches. 
Half  my  duty  I  can  do 

With  but  little  labor, 
For  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 

I  do  love  my  neighbor. 

Mighty  little  credit,  that, 

To  my  self-denial  ; 
Not  to  love  her,  though,  might  be 

Something  of  a  trial, 
Why,  the  rosy  light,  that  peeps 

Through  the  glass  above  her, 
Lingers  round  her  lips  :  — you  see 

E'en  the  sunbeams  love  her. 


THOUGHTS  ON   THE  COMMANDMENTS. 

So  to  make  ray  merit  more, 

I'll  go  beyond  the  letter  ; 
Love  my  neighbor  as  myself  ? 

Yes,  and  ten  times  better. 
For  she 's  sweeter  than  the  breath 

Of  the  Spring,  that  passes 
Through  the  fragrant,  budding  woods, 

O'er  the  meadow-grasses. 

And  I  've  preached  the  word  I  know, 

For  it  was  my  duty 
To  convert  the  stubborn  heart 

Of  the  little  beauty. 
Once  again  success  has  crowned 

Missionary  labor, 
For  her  sweet  eyes  own  that  she 

Also  loves  her  neighbor. 


MARRIAGE  A  LA  MODE. 

A    Trilogy. 
I. 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 
A.  D.   i860. 

HANK  you  — much  obliged,  old  boy, 
Yes,  it 's  so  ;  report  says  true. 
I  'm  engaged  to  Nell  Latine  — 

What  else  could  a  fellow  do  ? 
Governor  was  getting  fierce  ; 

Asked  me,  with  paternal  frown, 
When  I  meant  to  go  to  work, 

Take  a  wife,  and  settle  down. 
Stormed  at  my  extravagance, 

Talked  of  cutting  off  supplies— 
Fairly  bullied  me,  you  know  — 

Sort  of  thing  that  I  despise. 


MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE. 


Well,  you  see,  I  lost  worst  way 

At  the  races  —  Governor  raged  — 
So,  to  try  and  smooth  him  down, 

I  went  off,  and  got  engaged. 
Sort  of  put-up  job,  you  know  — 

All  arranged  with  old  Latine  — 
Nellie  raved  about  it  first, 

Said  her  '  pa  was  awful  mean  ! ' 
Now  it 's  done  we  do  n't  much  mind 

Tell  the  truth,  I  'm  rather  glad  ; 
Looking  at  it  every  way, 

One  must  own  it  is  n't  bad. 
She  's  good-looking,  rather  rich,  — 

Mother  left  her  quite  a  pile  ; 
Dances,  goes  out  everywhere  ; 

Fine  old  family,  real  good  style. 
Then  she  's  good,  as  girls  go  now. 

Some  idea  of  wrong  and  right, 
Do  n't  let  every  man  she  meets 

Kiss  her,  on  the  self-same  night 


MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE.  47 

We  do  n't  do  affection  much, 

Nell  and  I  are  real  good  friends, 
Call  there  often,  sit  and  chat, 

Take  her  'round,  and  there  it  ends. 
Spooning  !     Well,  I  tried  it  once  — 

Acted  like  ah  awful  calf  — 
Said  I  really  loved  her.     Gad  ! 

You  should  just  have  heard  her  laugh. 
Why,  she  ran  me  for  a  month, 

Teased  me  till  she  made  me  wince ; 
*  Must  n't  flirt  with  her,'  she  said, 

So  I  have  n't  tried  it  since. 
'T  would  be  pleasant  to  be  loved 

Like  you  read  about  in  books  — 
Mingling  souls,  and  tender  eyes  — 

Love,  and  that,  in  all  their  looks ; 
Thoughts  of  you,  and  no  one  else ; 

Voice  that  has  a  tender  ring, 
Sacrifices  made,  and  —  well  — 

You  know  —  all  that  sort  of  thing. 


48  MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE. 

That 's  all  worn-out  talk,  they  say, 

Do  n't  see  any  of  it  now  — 
Spooning  on  yourjftanc/e 

Is  n't  good  style,  anyhow. 
Just  suppose  that  one  of  us,  — 

Nell  and  me,  you  know —  some  day 
Got  like  that  on  some  one  else  — 

Might  be  rather  awkward  —  eh  ! 
All  in  earnest,  like  the  books  — 

Wouldn't  it  be  awful  rough  ! 
Jove  !  if  I  —  but  pshaw,  what  bosh  ! 

Nell  and  I  are  safe  enough.  — 
Some  time  in  the  Spring,  I  think  ; 

Be  on  hand  to  wish  us  joy  ? 
Be  a  groomsman,  if  you  like  — 

Lots  of  wine  —  good-bye,  old  boy." 

II. 

UP   THE   AISLE. 
A.  D.   l88l. 

TAKE  my  cloak  —  and  now  fix  my  veil,  Jenny 
How  silly  to  cover  one's  face  ! 


MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE. 


I  might  as  well  be  an  old  woman, 

But  then  there's  one  comfort  —  it  's  lace. 
Well,  what  has  become  of  those  ushers?  — 

Oh,  Pa,  have  you  got  my  bouquet  ? 
I'll  freeze  standing  here  in  the  lobby, 

Why  does  n't  the  organist  play  ? 
They  've  started  at  last  —  what  a  bustle  ! 

Stop,  Pa  !  —  they  're  not  far  enough  —  wait  ! 
One  minute  more  —  now  !     Do  keep  step,  Pa  ! 

There,  drop  my  trail,  Jane  ! — is  it  straight? 
I  hope  I  look  timid,  and  shrinking  ! 

The  church  must  be  perfectly  full  — 
Good  gracious,  please  do  n't  walk  so  fast,  Pa  ! 

He  do  n't  seem  to  think  that  trains  pull. 
The  chancel  at  last  —  mind  the  step,  Pa  !  — 

I  do  n't  feel  embarrassed  at  all  — 
But,  my  !     What 's  the  minister  saying? 

Oh,  I  know,  that  part  'bout  Saint  Paul. 
I  hope  my  position  is  graceful  — 

How  awkwardly  Nelly  Dane  stood  ! 


50  MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE. 

"  Not  lawfully  be  joined  together, 

Now  speak  "  —  as  if  any  one  would. 
Oh,  dear,  now  it 's  my  turn  to  answer  — 

I  do  wish  that  Pa  would  stand  still. 
"  Serve  him,  love,  honor,  and  keep  him  "  — 

How  sweetly  he  says  it  —  I  will. 
Where  's  Pa?— there,  I  knew  he'd  forget  it 

When  the  time  came  to  give  me  away — 
41 1,  Helena,  take  thee  —  love — cherish — 

And"  —  well,  I  can't  help  it,  —  "  obey." 
Here,  Maud,  take  my  bouquet  —  do  n't  drop  it  - 

I  hope  Charley  's  not  lost  the  ring  ! 
Just  like  him  !  —  no  —  goodness,  how  heavy  ! 

It 's  really  an  elegant  thing. 
It 's  a  shame  to  kneel  down  in  white  satin  — 

And  the  flounce  real  old  lace  —  but  I  must  — 
I  hope  that  they  've  got  a  clean  cushion, 

They  're  usually  covered  with  dust. 
All  over  —  ah,  thanks  !  —  now,  do  n't  fuss,  Pa  ! 

Just  throw  back  my  veil,  Charley  —  there? 


MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE.  51 

Oh,  bother  !     Why  could  n't  he  kiss  me 

Without  mussing  up  all  my  hair  ! 
Your  arm,  Charley,  there  goes  the  organ  — 

Who  'd  think  there  would  be  such  a  crowd  ! 
Oh,  I  must  n't  look  round,  I  'd  forgotten, 

See,  Charley,  who  was  it  that  bowed  ? 
\Vhy  —  it's  Nellie  Allaire,  with  her  husband  — 

She 's  awfully  jealous,  I  know, 
Most  all  of  my  things  were  imported, 

And  she  had  a  home-made  trousseau. 
And  there 's  Annie  Wheeler  —  Kate  Hermon  — 

I  did  n't  expect  her  at  all  — 
If  she's  not  in  that  same  old  blue  satin 

She  wore  at  the  Charity  Ball ! 
Is  that  Fanny  Wade? —  Edith  Pommeton  — 

And  Emma,  and  Jo  —  all  the  girls  ! 
I  knew  they  'd  not  miss  my  wedding  — 

I  hope  they  '11  all  notice  my  pearls. 
Is  the  carriage  there? — give  me  my  cloak,  Jane, 

Don't  get  it  all  over  my  veil  — 


MARRIAGE   A    LA   MODE. 


No  !  you  take  the  other  seat,  Charley  — 
I  need  all  of  this  for  my  trail. 

III. 

DIVORCE. 
A.D.,   1886. 

The  Club  Window. 
"  YES,  I  saw  her  pass  with  '  that  scoundrel '  — 

For  heaven's  sake,  old  man,  keep  cool  ! 
No  end  of  the  fellows  are  watching  — 

Go  easy,  do  n't  act  like  a  fool ! 
'  Parading  your  shame '  !  —  I  don't  see  it. 

It's  hers  now,  alone  ;  for  at  last 
You  drove  her  to  give  you  good  reason, 

Divorced  her,  and  so  it 's  all  passed. 
For  you,  I  mean  ;  she  has  to  bear  it  — 

Poor  child  —  the  reproach  and  the  shame  ; 
I  'm  your  friend —  but  come,  hang  it,  old  fellow, 

I  swear  you  were  somewhat  to  blame. 
1  What  the  deuce  do  I  mean  ? '  Well,  I  '11  tell  you, 

Though  it 's  none  of  my  business.     Here  ! 


MARRIAGE   A    LA    MODE. 


Just  light  a  cigar,  and  keep  quiet  — 

You  started  wrong,  Charley  Leclear. 
You  were  n't  in  love  when  you  married  — 

'  Nor  she  ! '  —  well,  I  know,  but  she  tried 
To  keep  it  dark.     You  would  n't  let  her, 

But  laughed  at  her  for  it.     Her  pride 
Would  n't  stand  that,  you  know.     Did  you  ever 

See  a  spirited  girl  in  your  life, 
Who  would  patiently  pose  to  be  pitied 

As  a  '  patient  Griselda  '-like  wife 
When  her  husband  neglects  her  so  plainly 

As  you  did  ? —  although,  on  the  whole, 
When  the  wife  is  the  culprit,  I  've  noticed 

It 's  rather  the  favorite  role. 
So  she  flirted  a  little  —  in  public  — 

She  'd  chances  enough  and  to  spare, 
Ah,  then  if  you  'd  only  turned  jealous  — 

But  you  did  n't  notice  nor  care. 
Then  her  sickness  came  —  even  we  fellows 

All  thought  you  behaved  like  a  scrub, 


MARRIAGE    A    LA    MODE. 


Leaving  her  for  the  nurse  to  take  care  of, 

While  you  spent  your  time  at  the  club. 
She  never  forgave  you.     How  could  she  ? 

If  I  'd  been  in  her  place  myself, 
By  Jove,  I  'd  have  left  you.     She  did  n't, 

But  told  all  her  woes  to  Jack  Guelph. 
When  a  girl 's  lost  all  love  for  her  husband, 

And  is  cursed  with  a  masculine  friend 
To  confide  in,  and  he  is  a  blackguard, 

She  is  n't  far  off  from  the  end. 
Oh,  I  'm  through  —  of  course  nobody  blamed  you 

In  the  end,  when  you  got  your  divorce  — 
You  were  right  enough  there  —  she'd  levanted 

With  Guelph,  and  you  'd  no  other  course. 
\Vhat  I  mean  is,  if  you  'd  acted  squarely, 

The  row  would  have  never  occurred, 
And  for  you  to  be  doing  the  tragic, 

Strikes  me  as  a  little  absurd. 
As  it  stands,  you  've  the  best  of  the  bargain, 

And  she 's  got  a  good  deal  the  worst, 


MARRIAGE  A    LA   MODE.  55 

Leave  it  there,  and  —  just  touch  the  bell,  will  you  ? 
You  're  nearest.     I  'm  dying  of  thirst." 

IV. 

AT  AFTERNOON  TEA. 

"  '  IN  New  York  ! '     Yes,  I  met  her  this  morning. 

I  knew  her  in  spite  of  her  paint ; 
And  Guelph,  too,  poor  fellow,  was  with  her ; 

I  felt  really  nervous,  and  faint, 
When  he  bowed  to  me,  looking  so  pleading  — 

I  cut  him,  of  course.     Wouldn't  you  ? 
If  I  meet  him  alone,  I  '11  explain  it  ; 

But  knowing  her,  what  could  I  do? 
Poor  fellow  !     He  looks  sadly  altered  — 

I  think  it  a  sin,  and  a  shame, 
The  way  he  was  wrecked  by  that  creature  ! 

I  know  he  was  never  to  blame. 
He  never  suspected.     He  liked  her  — 

He  'd  known  her  for  most  of  his  life  — 
And  of  course,  it  was  quite  a  temptation 

To  run  off  with  another  man's  wife. 


MARRIAGE   A    LA    MODE. 


At  his  age,  you  know  —  barely  thirty  — 

So  romantic,  and  makes  such  a  noise 
In  one's  club  —  why,  one  cant  but  excuse  him, 

Now  can  one,  dear  ?     Boys  will  be  boys. 
I  "ve  known  him  so  long  —  why,  he  'd  come  here 

And  talkt  o  me  just  like  a  son. 
It 's  my  duty —  I  feel  as  a  mother  — 

To  save  him  ;  the  thing  can  be  done 
Very  easily.     First,  I  must  show  him 

How  grossly  the  woman  deceived 
And  entrapped  him.  —  It  made  such  a  scandal 

You  know,  that  he  can't  be  received 
At  all,  any  more,  till  he  drops  her  — 

He  '11  certainly  not  be  so  mad 
As  to  hold  to  her  still.     Oh,  I  know  him 

So  well  —  I  'm  quite  sure  he  '11  be  glad 
On  any  excuse,  to  oblige  me 

In  a  matter  so  trifling  indeed. 
Then  the  way  will  be  clear.    We'll  receive  him. 

And  the  rest  will  soon  follow  our  lead. 


MARRIAGE   A    LA    MODE. 


We  must  keep  our  eyes  on  him  more  closely 

Hereafter  ;  young  men  of  his  wealth 
And  position  are  so  sorely  tempted 

To  waste  time,  and  fortune,  and  health 
In  frivolous  pleasures  and  pastimes, 

That  there  's  but  one  safe-guard  in  life 
For  them  and  their  money — we've  seen  it  — 

A  really  nice  girl  for  a  wife. 
Too  bad  you  've  no  daughter  !     My  Mamie 

Had  influence  with  him  for  good 
Before  this  affair — when  he  comes  here 

She  '11  meet  him,  I  'm  sure,  as  she  should  — 
That  is,  as  if  nothing  had  happened  — 

And  greet  him  with  sisterly  joy  ; 
Between  us  I  know  we  can  save  him. 

I  '11  write  him  to-morrow,  poor  boy." 


THE  "STAY-AT-HOME'S"  PLAINT. 


T 


HE  Spring  has  grown  to  Summer  ; 

The  sun  is  fierce  and  high  ; 
The  city  shrinks,  and  withers 

Beneath  the  burning  sky. 
Ailantus  trees  are  fragrant, 

And  thicker  shadows  cast, 
Where  berry-girls,  with  voices  shrill, 

And  watering  carts  go  past, 

In  offices  like  ovens 

We  sit  without  our  coats  ; 
Our  cuffs  are  moist  and  shapeless, 

No  collars  binds  our  throats. 
We  carry  huge  umbrellas 

On  Broad  Street  and  on  Wall, 
Oh,  how  thermometers  go  up  ! 

And,  oh,  how  stocks  do  fall  I 


THE  "STAY-AT-HOMES"  PLAINT.  S9 

The  nights  are  full  of  music, 

Melodious  Teuton  troops 
Beguile  us,  calmly  smoking, 

On  balconies  and  stoops. 
With  eyes  half-shut,  and  dreamy, 

We  watch  the  fire-flies'  spark, 
And  image  far-off  faces, 

As  day  dies  into  dark. 

The  avenue  is  lonely, 

The  houses  choked  with  dust ; 
The  shutters,  barred  and  bolted, 

The  bell-knobs  all  a-rust. 
No  blossom-like  spring  dresses, 

No  faces  young  and  fair, 
From  "  Dickel's"  to  "  The  Brunswick," 

No  promenader  there. 

The  girls  we  used  to  walk  with 

Are  far  away,  alas  ! 
The  feet  that  kissed  its  pavement 

Are  deep  in  country  grass. 


to  THE  "STAY-AT-HOME'S"  PLAINT. 

Along  the  scented  hedge-rows, 
Among  the  green  old  trees, 

Are  blooming  city  faces 
'Neath  rosy-lined  pongees. 

They  're  cottaging  at  Newport ; 

They  're  bathing  at  Cape  May  ; 
In  Saratoga's  ball-rooms 

They  dance  the  hours  away. 
Their  voices  through  the  quiet 

Of  haunted  Catskill  break  ; 
Or  rouse  those  dreamy  dryads, 

The  nymphs  of  Echo  Lake. 

The  hands  we  've  led  through  Germans, 

And  squeezed,  perchance,  of  yore, 
Now  deftly  grasp  the  bridle, 

The  mallet,  and  the  oar. 
The  eyes  that  wrought  our  ruin 

On  other  men  look  down  ; 
We  're  but  the  broken  play-things 

They  've  left  behind  in  town. 


THE  "STAY- AT-HOMES"  PLAINT, 

Oh,  happy  Gran'damc  Nature, 

\Vhose  wandering  children  come 
To  light  with  happy  faces 

The  dear  old  mother-home, 
Be  tender  with  our  darlings, 

Each  merry  maiden  bears 
Such  love  and  longing  with  her  — 

Men's  lives  are  wrapped  in  theirs. 


THE  "STAY-AT-HOME'S" 

r  I  "*HE  evenings  are  damper  and  colder  ; 
'        The  maples  and  sumacs  are  red, 
The  wild  Equinoctial  is  coming, 

The  flowers  in  the  garden  are  dead. 
The  steamers  are  all  overflowing, 

The  railroads  are  all  loaded  down, 
And  the  beauties  we  've  sighed  for  all  Summer 
Are  hurrying  back  into  town. 

They  come  from  the  banks  of  the  Hudson, 

From  the  sands  of  the  Branch,  and  Cape  May 
From  the  parlors  of  bright  Saratoga, 

From  the  dash  of  Niagara's  spray. 
From  misty,  sea-salt  Narragansett, 

From  Mahopac's  magical  lake. 
They  come  on  their  way  to  new  conquests, 

They  're  longing  for  more  hearts  to  break- 


THE  "STAY-AT-HOME'S"  PsEAN.  63 

E'en  Newport  is  dull  and  deserted  — 

Its  billowy  beaches  no  more 
Made  bright  with  sweet,  ocean-kissed  faces, 

Love's  beacon  lights  set  on  the  shore. 
The  rugged  White  Hills  of  New  Hampshire. 

The  last  of  their  lovers  have  seen, 
The  echoes  are  left  to  their  slumbers. 

No  dainty  feet  thread  the  ravine. 

On  West  Point's  delightful  parade  ground 

Sighs  many  a  hapless  cadet, 
Who  's  basked  through  the  long  days  of  Sutrurer 

In  the  smiles  of  a  city  coquette  ; 
And  now  the  incipient  hero 

Beholds  his  enchantress  depart, 
With  the  spoils  of  her  lightly-won  triumph, 

His  buttons,  as  well  as  his  heart. 

Come,  dry  your  eyes,  Grandmother  Nature, 

They  care  not  a  whit  for  your  woe  ; 
The  city  is  calling  her  daughters  — 

We  can't  spare  them  longer,  they  know- 


THE  "STA  Y-A  T-HOMES"  PMAN. 

Our  beautiful,  tender-voiced  darlings, 

With  the  blue  of  the  deep  Summer  skies, 

And  the  glow  of  the  bright  Summer  sunshine, 
Entrapped  in  their  mischievous  eyes. 

We  know  their  expenses  are  awful, 

That  horror  unspeakable  fills 
The  souls  of  unfortunate  fathers 

Who  foot  up  their  dressmaker's  bills. 
That  they  'd  barter  their  souls  for  French  candy  ; 

That  diamonds  ruin  their  peace  ; 
That  they  rave  over  middle-aged  actors, 

And  in  other  respects  are  —  well,  geese. 

We  laugh  at  them,  boys,  but  we  love  them, 

For  under  their  nonsense  \ve  know 
They  've  hearts  that  are  honest  and  loving, 

And  souls  that  are  whiter  than  snow. 
So  out  with  that  bottle  of  Roederer  ! 

Large  glasses,  boys  !      Up  goes  the  cork  ! 
Ml  charged  ?     To  the  belles  of  creation, 

The  glorious  girls  of  New  York. 


EIGHT    HOURS. 

<  <  O  IGN  the  petition  !  "     "  Write  my  name  !  *'" 
"  She  said,  ask  me  !  "  —  oh,  she 's  fooling  ; 
Where  do  you  think  a  girl  like  me 

Could  find  the  time  for  so  much  schooling  ? 
Why,  I  've  been  here  since  I  was  eight  or  so  — 

That 's  ten  years  now  —  and  it  seems  like  longer 
The  hours  are  from  eight  till  six  —  you  see 

It  wears  one  out — I  once  was  stronger. 
"A  bad  cough  !  "  oh,  that 's  nothing,  sir  ; 

It  comes  from  the  dust,  and  bending  over. 
It  hurts  me  sometimes  —  no,  not  now. 
"  This  !  "  why,  a  flower,  a  bit  of  clover. 
I  picked  it  up  as  I  came  to  work  — 

It  grew  in  the  grass  in  some  one's  airy, 
Where  it  stood,  and  nodded  all  alone 

Like  a  little  green-cloaked,  white-capped  fairy. 


66  RIGHT  HOURS. 


1 '  Fond  of  flowers  !  "     I  like  them  —  yes  - 

Though,  goodness  knows,  I  do  n't  see  many  — 
I  'd  have  to  buy  them  —  they  cost  so  much  — 

And  I  never  can  spare  a  single  penny. 
"  Go  to  the  park  !  "  —  how  can  I,  sir? 

The  only  day  that  I  have  is  Sunday  ; 
And  then  there  's  always  so  much  to  do 

That  before  I  know  it,  almost,  it 's  Monday. 
Like  it  sir,  like  it !  —  why,  when  I  think 

Of  the  woods,  and  the  brook  with  the  cattle  drinking  - 
I  was  country-bred,  sir  —  my  heart  swells  so 

That  I  —  there,  there,  what 's  the  use  of  thinking! 
If  I  could  write,  sir — "make  across, 

And  let  you  write  my  name  below  it " — 
No,  please  ;  I  'm  ashamed  I  can  't,  sometimes, — 

I  do  n't  want  all  the  girls  to  know  it. 
And  what 's  the  use  of  it,  anyway  ? 

They  '11  just  say  shortly,  with  careless  faces, 
"  If  you  're  not  suited,  you  'd  better  leave  "  — 

There 's  plenty  of  girls  to  fill  our  places. 


EIGHT  HOURS. 


They  're  kind  enough  to  their  own,  no  doubt  — 

Our  head  just  worships  his  own  young  daughter, 
Just  my  age,  sir —  she 's  gone  away 

To  spend  the  Summer  across  the  water. 
But  ^ls  —  oh,  well,  we're  only  "hands," 

Do  you  think  to  please  us  they  '11  bear  losses  ? 
No,  not  a  cent's  worth  — ah,  you  '11  see  — 

I  'm  a  working  girl,  sir,  and  I  know  bosses. 


"\  r 


SLEEPING    BEAUTY. 

A    PARABLK. 

U  remember  the  nursery  legend  — 
We  heard  in  the  early  days, 

Ere  we  knew  of  the  world's  deception 
Or  walked  in  its  dusty  ways, 

And  dwelt  in  a  land  of  the  fairies 
Where  the  air  was  golden  haze  — 

Of  the  maid,  o'er  whom  the  Summers 
Of  youth  passed,  like  a  swell 

Of  melody  all  unbroken, 
Till  evil  wrought  its  spell, 

And  dream-embroidered  curtains 
Of  slumber  round  her  fell. 

The  wood  grew  up  round  her  castle, 
The  centuries  o'er  it  rolled, 


SLEEPING  BEAUTY.  Cg 

Wrapping  its  slumb'rous  turrets 

In  clinging  robes  of  mould, 
And  her  name  became  a  legend 

By  Winter  fire-sides  told. 

Till  the  Prince  came  over  the  mountains 

In  the  morning-glow  of  youth  ; 
The  forest  sank  before  him 

Like  wrong  before  the  truth, 
And  he  passed  the  dim  old  portal, 

With  its  warders  so  uncouth, 

Woke  with  a  kiss  the  Princess, 

And  broke  enchantment's  chain, 
The  sleepy  old  castle  wondered, 

In  its  cobweb-cumbered  brain, 
At  the  tide  of  life  and  pleasure 

That  poured  through  each  stony  vein. 

And  so  love  conquered  an  eviJ 
Centuries  old  in  might, 


70  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

Scattering  drowsy  glamour, 
Piercing  the  murky  night, 

Leading  from  thrall  and  darkness 
Beauty,  and  joy,  and  light. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

OO  early,  of  course  !     How  provoking  ! 

I  told  Ma  just  how  it  would  be. 
I  might  as  well  have  on  a  wrapper, 

For  there  is  n't  a  soul  here  to  see. 
There  !  Sue  Delaplaine's  pew  is  empty,  — 

I  declare  if  it  is  n't  too  bad  ! 
I  know  my  suit  cost  more  than  hers  did, 

And  I  wanted  to  see  her  look  mad. 
I  do  think  that  sexton 's  too  stupid  — 

He 's  put  some  one  else  in  our  pew  — 
And  the  girl's  dress  just  kills  mine  completely  ; 

Now  what  am  I  going  to  do  ? 
The  psalter,  and  Sue  is  n't  here  yet  ! 

I  do  n't  care,  I  think  it 's  a  sin 
For  people  to  get  late  to  service, 

Just  to  make  a  great  show  coming  in. 


EA  S  TER  MORNING. 


Perhaps  she  is  sick,  and  can't  get  here  — 

She  said  she  'd  a  headache  last  night, 
How  mad  she  '11  be  after  her  fussing! 

I  declare,  it  would  serve  her  just  right. 
Oh,  you  've  got  here  at  last,  my  dear,  have  you  ? 

Well,  I  do  n't  think  you  need  be  so  proud 
Of  that  bonnet,  if  Virot  did  make  it, 

It 's  horrid  fast-looking  and  loud. 
What  a  dress!  —  for  a  girl  in  her  senses 

To  go  on  the  street  in  light  blue!  — 
And  those  coat-sleeves  —  they  wore  them  last  Summer 

Do  n't  doubt,  though,  that  she  thinks  they  're  new. 
Mrs.  Gray's  polonaise  was  imported  — 

So  dreadful!  —  a  minister's  wife, 
And  thinking  so  much  about  fashion  !  — 

A  pretty  example  of  life! 
The  altar 's  dressed  sweetly.     I  wonder 

Who  sent  those  white  flowers  for  the  font!  — 
Some  girl  who 's  gone  on  the  assistant  — 

Do  n't  doubt  it  was  Bessie  Lament. 


EASTER  MORNING. 


Just  look  at  her  now,  little  humbug  !  — 

So  devout  —  I  suppose  she  do  n't  know 
That  she  's  bending  her  head  too  far  over, 

And  the  ends  of  her  switches  all  show. 
What  a  sight  M  rs.  Ward  is  this  morning ! 

That  woman  will  kill  me  some  day. 
With  her  horrible  lilacs  and  crimsons  ; 

Why  will  these  old  things  dress  so  gay  ? 
And  there  's  Jenny  Welles  with  Fred.  Tracy  — 

She  's  engaged  to  him  now  —  horrid  thing  ! 
Dear  me  !  I  'd  keep  on  my  glove  sometimes, 

If  I  did  have  a  solitaire  ring  I 
How  can  this  girl  next  to  me  act  so  — 

The  way  that  she  turns  round  and  stares, 
And  then  makes  remarks  about  people  ; 

She  'd  better  be  saying  her  prayers. 
Oh  dear,  wkat  a  dreadful  long  sermon  ! 

He  must  love  to  hear  himself  talk  ! 
And  it 's  after  twelve  now,  —  how  provoking  ! 

L  wanted  to  have  a  nice  walk. 


74  EASTER  MORNING. 

Through  at  last.     Well  it  is  n't  so  dreadful 
After  all,  for  \ve  don't  dine  till  one  ; 

How  can  people  say  church  is  poky  !  — 
So  wicked  !  —  I  think  it 's  real  fun. 


A   LEGEND   OF   ST.  VALENTINE. 

COME  !     Why,  halloa,  that  you,  Jack? 
How  's  the  world  been  using  you  ? 
Want  your  pipe  ?  it's  in  the  jar  — 

Think  I  might  be  looking  blue. 
Maud 's  been  breaking  off  with  me, 

Fact  —see  here  —  I  've  got  the  ring. 
That 's  the  note  she  sent  it  in  ; 

Read  it  —  soothing  sort  of  thing. 
Jack,  you  know  I  write  sometimes  — 

Must  have  read  some  things  of  mine. 
Well,  I  thought  I  'd  just  send  Maud 

Something  for  a  valentine. 
So  I  ground  some  verses  out 

In  the  softest  kind  of  style, 
Full  of  love,  and  that,  you  know  — 

Bothered  me  an  awful  while  ; 


76  A    LEGEND  OF  ST.  VALENTINE. 

Quite  a  heavy  piece  of  work. 

So  when  I  had  got  them  done  — 
"Why,  I  thought  them  much  too  good 

Just  to  waste  that  way  on  one. 
Jack,  I  told  you,  did  n't  I, 

All  about  that  black-eyed  girl 
Up  in  Stratford  —  last  July  — 

Oh  !  you  know  ;  you  saw  her  curl  ? 
Well,  old  fellow,  she  's  the  one 

That  this  row  is  all  about, 
For  I  sent  her — who'd  have  thought 

Maud  would  ever  find  it  out  — 
Those  same  verses,  word  for  wort!  — 

Hang  it,  man  !  you  need  n't  roar  — 
"  Splendid  joke  !  "  well,  so  I  thought  — 

No,  do  n't  think  so  any  more. 
Yesterday,  you  know  it  rained, 

I'd  been  up  late  —  at  a  ball  — 
Did  n't  know  what  else  to  do  — 

\Vent  up  and  made  Maud  a  call 


A    LEGEND   OF  ST.   VALENTINE.  77 

Found  some  other  girl  there,  too, 

They  were  playing  a  duet. 
"  Fred,  my  cousin,  Nelly  Deane,"  — 

Yes,  Jack,  there  was  my  brunette  ; 
You  should  just  have  seen  me,  Jack  — 

Now,  old  fellow,  please  do  n't  laugh, 
I  feel  bad  about  it  —  fact  — 

And  I  really  can't  stand  chuff. 
"Well,  I  tried  to  talk  to  Maud, 

There  was  Nell,  though,  sitting  by  ; 
Every  now  and  then  she  'd  laugh, 

Sure  I  can't  imagine  why. 
Maud  would  read  that  beastly  poem, 

Nell's  eyes  said  in  just  one  glance, 
"  Wont  I  make  you  pay  for  this, 

If  I  ever  get  the  chance  !  " 
Some  one  came  and  rang  the  bell, 

Just  a  note  for  Nell,  by  post. 
Jack,  I  saw  my  monogram  — 

I  'd  have  rather  seen  a  ghost. 


78  A    LEGEND   OF  ST.   YALENT1NE. 

Yes  —  her  verses  —  I  suppose 

That  her  folks  had  sent  them  down  — 
Could  n't  get  up  there,  you  know  — 

Till  she  'd  left  and  come  to  town. 
Nelly  looked  them  quickly  through  — 

Laughed  —  by  Jove,  I  thought  she  'd  choke. 
"  Maud  —  he  '11  kill  me  —  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  — 

Read  that ;  is  n't  it  a  joke  ?  " 
Maud  glanced  through  them  —  sank  right  down 

On  the  sofa  —  hid  her  face  — 
"  Crying  !  "  —  not  much  —  laughing,  Jack  — 

Do  n't  think  she 's  a  hopeless  case. 
I  just  grabbed  my  hat  and  left  - 

Only  wish  I  'd  gone  before. 
How  they  laughed  !  —  I  heard  them,  Jack  — 

Till  I  got  outside  the  door. 
There,  confession 's  done  me  good, 

I  can  never  win  her  back, 
So  I  '11  calmly  let  her  slide  — 

Pass  the  ash-cup,  will  you,  Jack. 


FROST-BITTEN. 

\  "\  7"  E  were  driving  home  from  the  "  Patriarchs'  "  - 

Molly  Lefevre  and  I,  you  know  ; 
The  white  flakes  fluttered  about  our  lamps; 
Our  wheels  were  hushed  in  the  sleeping  snow. 

Her  white  arms  nestled  amid  her  furs  ; 

Her  hands  half-held,  with  languid  grace, 
Her  fading  roses  ;  fair  to  see 

Was  the  dreamy  look  in  her  sweet,  young  face. 

I  watched  her,  saying  never  a  word, 

For  I  would  not  waken  those  dreaming  eyes. 

The  breath  of  the  roses  filled  the  air, 

And  my  thoughts  were  many,  and  far  from  wise. 

At  last  I  said  to  her,  bending  near, 

"  Ah,  Molly  Lefevre,  how  sweet  't  \vould  be, 


8o  FROST-BITTEN. 


To  ride  on  dreaming,  all  our  lives, 
Alone  with  the  roses  —  you  and  me." 

Her  sweet  lips  faltered,  her  sweet  eyes  fell, 
And,  low  as  the  voice  of  a  Summer  rill, 

Her  answer  came.     It  was —  "  Yes,  perhaps  — 
But  who  would  settle  our  carriage  bill  ?  " 

The  dying  roses  breathed  their  last, 

Our  wheels  rolled  loud  on  the  stones  just  then, 
Where  the  snow  had  drifted  ;  the  subject  dropped. 

It  has  never  been  taken  up  again. 


A  SONG. 

Q*  PRING-TIME  is  coming  again,  my  dear  ; 
**-'  Sunshine  and  violets  blue,  you  know  ; 
Crocuses  lifting  their  sleepy  heads 

Out  of  their  sheets  of  snow. 
And  I  know  a  blossom  sweeter  by  far 
That  violets  blue,  or  crocuses  are, 

And  bright  as  the  sunbeam's  glow. 
But  how  can  I  dare  to  look  in  her  eyes, 

Colored  with  heaven's  own  hue  ? 
That  would  n't  do  at  all,  my  dear, 
It  really  would  n't  do. 

Her  hair  is  a  rippling,  tossing  sea  ; 

In  its  golden  depths  the  fairies  play. 
Beckoning,  dancing,  mocking  there, 

Luring  my  heart  away. 


And  her  merry  lips  are  the  ripest  red 
That  ever  addled  a  poor  man's  head, 

Or  led  his  wits  astray. 
What  would  n't  I  give  to  taste  the  sweets 

Of  those  rose-leaves  wet  with  dew  ! 
But  that  would  n't  do  at  all,  my  dear, 

It  really  would  n't  do. 

Her  voice  is  gentle,  and  clear  and  pure  ; 

It  rings  like  the  chime  of  a  silver  bell, 
And  the  thought  it  wakes  in  my  foolish  head, 

I  'm  really  afraid  to  tell. 
Her  little  feet  kiss  the  ground  below, 
And  her  hand  is  white  as  the  whitest  snow 

That  e'er  from  heaven  fell. 
But  I  would  n't  dare  to  take  that  hand. 

Reward  for  my  love  to  sue  ; 
That  would  n't  do  at  all,  my  dear, 

It  really  would  n't  do. 


OLD  PHOTOGRAPHS. 

S    VLD  lady,  put  your  glasses  on, 

With  polished  lenses,  mounting  golden, 
And  once  again  look  slowly  through 
The  album  olden. 

How  the  old  portraits  take  you  back 

To  friends  who  once  would  'round  you  gather  — 
All  scattered  now,  like  frosted  leaves 

In  blustering  weather. 

Why,  who  is  this,  the  bright  coquette  ? 

Her  eyes  with  Love's  bright  arrows  laden  — 
"  Poor  Nell,  she's  living  single  yet, 
An  ancient  maiden." 

And  this,  the  fragile  poetess? 
Whose  high  soul-yearnings  nought  can  smother — 


OLD  PHOTOGRAPHS. 


"  She  's  stouter  far  than  I  am  now, 
A  kind  grandmother." 

Who  is  this  girl  with  flowing  curls, 

Who  on  the  golden  future  muses  ? 
"  What  splendid  hair  she  had  !  —  and  now 
A  '  front '  she  uses." 

And  this  ?     "  WThy,  if  it 's  not  my  own  ; 

And  did  I  really  e'er  resemble 
That  bright  young  creature  ?     Take  the  book  - 

My  old  hands  tremble. 

"  It  seems  that  only  yesterday 

We  all  were  young  ;  ah,  how  time  passes  !" 
Old  lady,  put  the  album  down, 
And  wipe  your  glasses. 


•'LE   DERNIER   JOUR   D'UN   CONDAMNEV* 


O 


LD  coat,  for  some  three  or  four  seasons 

We  've  been  jolly  comrades,  but  now 
We  part,  old  companion,  forever  ; 

To  fate,  and  the  fashion,  I  bow. 
You  'd  look  well  enough  at  a  dinner, 

I  'd  wear  you  with  pride  at  a  ball  ; 
But  I  'm  dressing  to-night  for  a  wedding  — 

My  own  —  and  you  'd  not  do  at  all. 

You  've  too  many  wine-stains  about  you, 

You  're  scented  too  much  with  cigars, 
When  the  gas-light  shines  full  on  your  collar. 

It  glitters  with  myriad  stars, 
That  would  n't  look  well  at  my  wedding ; 

They  'd  seem  inappropriate  there  — 
Nell  does  n't  use  diamond  powder, 

She  tells  me  it  ruins  the  hair. 


86         "LE  DERNIER  JOUR  D"UN  CONDAMXE."' 

You  've  been  out  on  Cozzens'  piazza. 

Too  late,  when  the  evenings  were  damp, 
When  the  moon-beams  were  silvering  Cro'nest, 

And  the  lights  were  all  out  in  the  camp. 
You  ''ve  rested  on  highly-oiled  stairways 

Too  often,  when  sweet  eyes  were  bright, 
And  somebody's  ball  dress  —  not  Nellie's  — 

Flowed  'round  you  in  rivers  of  white. 

There 's  a  reprobate  looseness  about  you  ; 

Should  I  wear  you  to-night,  I  believe, 
As  I  come  with  my  bride  from  the  altar, 

You  'd  laugh  in  your  wicked  old  sleeve, 
When  you  felt  there  the  tremulous  pressure 

Of  her  hand,  in  its  delicate  glove, 
That  is  telling  me  shyly,  but  proudly, 

Her  trust  is  as  deep  as  her  love. 

So,  go  to  your  grave  in  the  wardrobe, 
And  furnish  a  feast  for  the  moth, 

Nell's  glove  shall  betray  its  sweet  secrets 
To  younger,  more  innocent  cloth 


*LE  DERNIER  JOUR  D"UN  CONDAMNE."         87 

'T  is  time  to  put  on  your  successor  — 

It 's  made  in  a  fashion  that's  new  ; 
Old  coat,  I  'm  afraid  it  will  never 

Sit  as  easily  on  me  as  you. 


CHRISTMAS  GREENS. 

/~"^\H,  Lowbury  pastor  is  fair  and  young, 

By  far  too  good  for  a  single  life, 
And  many  a  maiden,  saith  gossip's  tongue, 

Would  fain  be  Lowbury  pastor's  wife : 
So  his  book-marks  are  'broidered  in  crimson  and  gold, 
And  his  slippers  are,  really,  a  "sight  to  behold." 

That  's  Lowbury  pastor,  sitting  there 

On  the  cedar  boughs  by  the  chancel  rails  ; 

His  face  is  clouded  with  carking  care, 
For  it 's  nearly  five,  the  daylight  fails  — 

The  church  is  silent,  —  the  girls  all  gone, 

And  the  Christmas  wreaths  not  nearly  done. 

Two  tiny  boots  crunch-crunch  the  snow, 
They  saucily  stamp  at  the  transept  door, 


CHRISTMAS  GREENS.  89 

And  then  up  to  the  pillared  aisle  they  go 

Pit-pat,  click-clack,  on  the  marble  floor  — 
A  lady  fair  doth  that  pastor  see, 
And  he  saith,  "  Oh,  bother,  it  is  n't  she  !  " 

A  lady  in  seal-skin  —  eyes  of  blue, 

And  tangled  tresses  of  snow-flecked  gold  — 

She  speaks,  "  Good  gracious  !  can  this  be  you, 
Sitting  alone  in  the  dark  and  cold  ? 

The  rest  all  gone  !  Why  it  was  n't  right ; 

These  texts  will  never  be  done  to-night." 

She  sits  her  down  at  her  pastor's  feet, 

And,  wreathing  evergreen,  weaves  her  wiles, 

Heart-piercing  glances  bright  and  fleet, 
Soft  little  sighs,  and  shy  little  smiles  ; 

But  the  pastor  is  solemnly  sulky  and  glum, 

And  thinketh  it  strange  that  "she  "  does  n't  come. 

Then  she  tells  him  earnestly,  soft  and  low, 
How  she  'd  do  her  part  in  this  world  of  strife, 

And  humbly  look  to  him  to  know 

The  path  that  her  feet  should  tread  through  life  — 


ft  A 

OF   THK 

UNIVERSITY 


CHRISTMA  .9  GREEKS. 


Her  pastor  yawneth  behind  his  hat, 
And  wondereth  what  she  is  driving  at. 

Crunch-crunch  again  on  the  snow  outside, 

The  pastor  riseth  unto  his  feet, 
The  vestry  door  is  opened  wide, 

A  dark-eyed  maid  doth  the  pastor  greet, 
And  that  lady  fair  can  see  and  hear, 
Her  pastor  kiss  her,  and  call  her  "  dear." 

"  Why,  Maud  !  "  "  Why,  Nelly  !  "  those  damsels  cry 

But  lo,  what  troubles  that  lady  fair  ? 
On  Nelly's  finger  there  meets  her  eye 

The  glow  of  a  diamond  solitaire, 
And  she  thinks,  as  she  sees  the  glittering  ring, 
"  And  so  she 's  got  him  —  the  hateful  thing  !  " 

There  sit  they  all  'neath  the  Christmas  tree, 
For  Maud  is  determined  that  she  wont  go 

The  pastor  is  cross  as  a  man  can  be, 
And  Nelly  would  like  to  pinch  her  so, 

ft.nd  they  go  on  wreathing  the  text  again  — 

It  is  "  Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  towards  men." 


LAKE  MAHOPAC  — SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

<  <  T^ES,  I  'm  here,  I  suppose  you  're  delighted  : 

You  'd  heard  I  was  not  coming  down  ! 
Why  I  've  been  here  a  week  ! — '  rather  early  ' — 
I  know,  but  it 's  horrid  in  town 

A  Boston  ?     Most  certainly,  thank  you. 

This  music  is  perfectly  sweet  ; 
Of  course  I  like  dancing  in  summer  ; 

It 's  warm,  but  I  do  n't  mind  the  heat. 

The  clumsy  thing  !     Oh  !  how  he  hurt  me  t 

I  really  can't  dance  any  more  — 
Let 's  walk  —  see,  they  're  forming  a  Lancers  ; 

These  square  dances  are  such  a  bore. 

My  cloak  —  oh  !  I  really  don't  need  it  — 
Well,  carry  it,  — so,  in  the  folds  — 


LA  KE  MA  HOPA  C-SA  TURD  A  Y  NIGHT. 

I  hate  it,  but  Ma  made  me  bring  it  ; 
She 's  frightened  to  death  about  colds. 

This  is  rather  cooler  than  dancing. 

They  're  lovely  piazzas  up  here  ; 
Those  lanterns  look  sweet  in  the  bushes, 

It 's  lucky  the  night  is  so  clear. 

I  am  rather  tired —  in  this  corner  ?  — 
Very  well,  if  you  like — I  don't  care  — 

But  you'll  have  to  sit  on  the  railing  — 
You  see  there  is  only  one  chair. 

'  So  long  since  you  've  seen  me '  —  oh,  ages  !  — 

Let 's  see,  why  it's  ten  days  ago  — 
'  Seems  years ' —  oh  !  of  course —  do  n't  look  spoonev 

It  is  n't  becoming,  you  know. 

How  bright  the  stars  seem  to-night,  don't  they  ? 

What  was  it  you  said  about  eyes  ? 
How  sweet  !  —  why  you  must  be  a  poet  — 

One  never  can  tell  till  he  tries. 


LAKE  MAHOPAC  —  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

Why  can't  you  be  sensible,  Harry  ! 

I  do  n't  like  men's  arms  on  my  chair. 
Be  still !  if  you  do  n't  stop  this  nonsense 

I  '11  get  up  and  leave  you  ;  —  so  there  ! 

Oh  !  please  do  n't  —  I  do  n't  want  to  hear  it  - 

A  boy  like  you  talking  of  love. 
'  My  answer  ! '  — Well,  sir,  you  shall  have  it  - 

Just  wait  till  I  get  off  my  glove. 

See  that?  —  Well,  you  needn't  look  tragic, 

It's  only  a  solitaire  ring,  — 
Of  course  I  am  '  proud  of  it '  —  very  — 

It 's  rather  an  elegant  thing. 

Engaged  !  —  yes  —  why,  didn't  you  know  it  ? 

I  thought  the  news  must  have  reached  here  - 
Why,  the  wedding  will  be  in  October  — 

The  '  happy  man  '  —  Charley  Leclear. 

Now  don't  blame  me —  I  tried  to  stop  you  — 
But  you  would  go  on  like  a  goose  ; 


LA  KE  MA  HOP  A  C  —  SA  TURD  A  Y  HIGH  T. 

I  'm  sorry  it  happened  —  forget  it  — 

Do  n't  think  of  it  —  do  n't  —  what 's  the  use 

There 's  somebody  coming  —  do  n't  look  so  — 

Get  up  on  the  railing  again  — 
Can't  you  seem  as  if  nothing  had  happened  ? 

I  never  saw  such  geese  as  men  ! 

Ah,  Charley,  you  've  found  me  !     A  galop  ? 

The  '  Bahn  frei  ? '  Yes  ;  take  my  bouquet  — 
And  my  fan,  if  you  will  —  now  I  'm  ready  — 

You'll'excuse  me,  of  course,  Mr.  Gray." 


T 


MATINAL  MUSINGS. 

EN  o'clock  !     Well,  I  'm  sure  I  can't  help  it ! 
I  'm  up  —  go  away  from  the  door  ! 
Now,  children,  I  '11  speak  to  your  mother 
If  you  pound  there  like  that  any  more. 

How  tired  I  do  feel? — Where's  that  cushion?- 
I  do  n't  want  to  move  from  this  chair ; 

I  wish  Marie  'd  make  her  appearance  ! 
I  really  cant  do  my  own  hair. 

I  wish  I  'd  not  danced  quite  so  often  — 
I  knew  I  'd  feel  tired  !  but  it 's  hard 

To  refuse  a  magnificent  dancer 

If  you  have  a  place  left  on  your  card, 

I  was  silly  to  wear  that  green  satin, 
It's  a -shame  that  I  'vc  spotted  it  sp— - 


96  MATIN  A  L  MUSINGS. 

All  down  the  front  breadth  —  it 's  just  ruined 
No  trimming  will  hide  that,  I  know. 

That 's  me  !     Have  a  costume  imported, 
And  spoil  it  the  very  first  night !  — 

I  might  make  an  overskirt  of  it, 

That  shade  looks  so  lovely  with  white. 

How  horrid  my  eyes  look  !     Good  gracious  ! 

I  hope  that  I  did  n't  catch  cold 
Sitting  out  on  the  stairs  with  Will  Stacy  ; 

If  Ma  knew  that,  would  n't  she  scold  ! 

She  says  he  's  so  fast —  well,  who  is  n't  ?  — 
Dear  !  where  is  Marie  ?  — how  it  rains  !  — 

I  do  n't  care  ;  he  's  real  nice  and  handsome. 
And  his  talk  sounds  as  if  he  'd  some  brains. 

I  do  wonder  what  is  the  reason, 

That  good  men  are  all  like  Joe  Price, 

So  poky,  and  stiff,  and  conceited, 
And  fast  ones  arc  always  so  nice.  — 


MA  TIN  A  L  MUSINGS.  97 

Just  see  how  Joe  acted  last  evening  ! 

He  did  n't  come  near  me  at  all, 
Because  I  danced  twice  with  Will  Stacy 

That  night  at  the  Charity  ball. 

I  did  n't  care  two  pins  to  do  it  ; 

But  Joe  said  I  must  n't, —  and  so  — 
I  just  did  —  he  is  n't  my  master, 

Nor  sha'  n't  be,  I  'd  like  him  to  know. 

I  do  n't  think  he  looked  at  me  even, 

Though  just  to  please  him  I  wore  green,— 

And  I  'd  saved  him  three  elegant  dances, — 
/would  n't  have  acted  so  mean. 

The  way  he  went  on  with  Nell  Haclley  ; 

Dear  me  !  just  a.*  if  I  would  care  ! 
I  'd  like  to  see  those  two  get  married, 

They  'd  make  a  congenial  pair  ! 

I  'm  getting  disgusted  with  parties  ;  — 
I  think  I  shall  stop  going  out ; 


MA  TINAL   MUSINGS. 


What 's  the  use  of  this  fussing  for  people 
I  do  n't  care  the  least  bit  about. 

I  did  think  that  Joe  had  some  sense  once  ; 

But,  my,  he 's  just  like  all  the  men  ! 
And  the  way  that  I  've  gone  on  about  him,  — 

Just  see  if  I  do  it  again  ! 

Only  wait  till  the  next  time  I  see  him, 
I  '11  pay  him  back  ;  wont  I  be  cool  ! 

I  've  a  good  mind  to  drop  him  completely  — 
I'll  —  yes  I  will — go  back  to  school. 

The  bell  !  — who  can  that  be,  I  wonder  !  — 
Let 's  see  —  I  declare  !  why,  it 's  Joe  !  — 

How  long  they  are  keeping  him  waiting  ! 
Good  gracious  !   why  do  n't  the  girl  go  !  — 

Yes —  say  I  '11  be  down  in  a  minute  — 
Quick,  Marie,  and  do  up  my  hair  !  — 

Not  that  bow  —  the  green  one  —  Joe  likes  it- 
How  slow  you  are  !  —  I'll  pin  it  — there  ! 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SAW-DUST. 
O  UTHIN'  to  put  in  a  story  ! 

I  could  n't  think  of  a  thing, 
'N'  it 's  nigh  unto  thirty  year  now 

Since  fust  I  went  in  the  ring. 
"  The  life  excitin'  ?  "     Thunder  ! 

"  Variety,"  did  you  say  ? 
You  must  have  cur'us  notions 

'Bout  circuses,  anyway. 
The  things  that  look  so  risky 

Aint  nothin'  to  us  but  biz. 
"  Accidents" — falls  and  sich  like? 

Sometimes,  in  course,  there  is. 
But  it 's  only  a  slip,  or  a  stumble, 

Some  feller  laid  out  flat, 
It  do  n't  take  more  'n  a  second  ; 

There  aint  no  story  in  that. 


A    ROMANCE  OF   THE  SAW-DUST. 

'N'  like  as  not,  the  tumble 

Do  n't  do  no  harm  at  all : 
There  's  one  gal  here  —  I  tell  yer, 

She  eot  an  awful  fall. 
You  know  her  —  Ma'am'selle  Ida  — 

She 's  Jimmy  Barnet's  wife, 
The  prettiest  little  woman 

You  ever  see  in  your  life. 
They  was  lovers  when  they  was  young  uns, 

No  more  'n  two  hands  high. 
She  nussed  Jim  through  a  fever  once, 

When  the  doctors  swore  he  'd  die. 
I  taught  'em  both  the  motions  ; 

She  never  know'd  no  fear, 
And  they  *ve  done  the  trapeze  together 

For  more  'n  a  couple  o*  year. 
Last  Summer  we  took  on  a  Spaniard, 

A  mis'rable  kind  of  cuss, 
Spry  feller  —  but  awful  tempered, 

Always  a-makin*  a  fuss. 


A   ROMANCE  OF  THE  SAW-DUST. 

He  wanted  to  marry  Ida  — 

His  chance  was  pretty  slim, 
He  did  his  best,  but  bless  yer, 

She  'd  never  go  back  on  Jim. 
He  acted  up  so  foolish, 

That  Jim,  one  day,  got  riled 
'  N '  guv  him  a  reg'lar  whalin'; 

That  druv  the  Spaniard  wild. 
He  talked  like  he  was  crazy, 

'  N '  raved  around,  and  swore 
He'd  kill  'em  both  ;  but  Jim  just  laughed-- 

He  'd  heer'd  such  talk  before. 
One  day,  when  we  was  showin' 

In  a  little  country  town, 
Jim  mashed  his  hand  with  a  hatchet, 

Drivin'  a  tent  stake  down. 
He  could  n't  work  that  night,  nohow, 

But  the  "trap"  hed  got  to  be  done. 
The  Spaniard  said  he  'd  try  it  — 

'  N '  they  had  to  take  him  or  none. 


A    ROMANCE  OF  THE  SAW-DUST. 

I  knew  Jim  did  n't  like  it, 

'  N '  Ide  looked  scared  and  white  — 
Look  out  for  me,  boys,"  she  whispered, 
"  I  'm  goin'  to  fall  to-night ;  " 
Then  she  looked  up  with  a  shiver, 

At  the  trapeze  swingin'  there, 
A  couple  of  bars  and  a  rope  or  two 

Forty  feet  up  in  the  air. 
But  up  she  dumb —  he  arter  — 

Stood  up,  but  how  Ide  shook, 
Then  the  Spaniard  yelled  like  a  devil, 

"  Now  look,  Jim  Barnet  !  —  look  !  "  - 
With  that  he  jumped  'n'  gripped  her  ; 

She  fought,  but  he  broke  her  hold, 
Grabbed  at  the  rope,  'n'  missed  it  — 

Off  of  the  bar  they  rolled, 
Clinched,  'n'  Ide  a  screamin' ; 

Thud  !  — they  struck  the  ground  ; 
I  turned  all  sick  and  dizzy, 

'N'  everything  went  round. 


RA/ 

?   THE 

ERSITY 


A   ROMANCE  OF  THE  SAW-DUST.  103 


How  still  it  were  for  a  second  !  — 

It  seemed  like  an  hour  —  'n'  then 
The  women  was  all  a  screechin', 

'N'  the  ring  was  full  of  men. 
Poor  Jim  was  stoopin'  to  lift  her, 

But  flopped  right  down,  'n'  said, 
Sez  he,  "  Her  lips  is  movin'  ! 

She  *s  breathin'  !  —  She  is  n't  dead  !  " 
For  sure  !  —  he  'd  fallen  under  ; 

It  kinder  broke  her  fall  ; 
Except  the  scare  and  a  broken  arm, 

She  was  n't  hurt  at  all. 
"  The  Spaniard  ?  "     Oh,  it  killed  him  ; 

It  broke  his  cussed  neck. 
But  nobody  cried  their  eyes  out, 

As  near  as  I  reckeleck. 
She  married  Jim  soon  arter, 

They  're  doin'  the  trapeze  still  ; 
So,  yer  see,  as  I  was  savin', 

These  falls  do  n't  always  kill. 


io4  A   ROMANCE  OF  THE  SAW-DUST. 

'N'  as  for  things  excitin* 
To  put  in  a  story,  —  well, 

I  'd  really  like  to  oblige  yer, 

But  then  there  aint  nothin'  to  tell. 


PYROTECHNIC  POLYGLOT. 

(MADISON  SQUARE,  JULY  4.) 

i  <  T_T  EY,  Johnny  McGinnis,  where  are  yez  ? 

I  've  got  a  place  !     Arrah,  be  quick  !  " 
Whiz  !  Boom  !     ' '  Hooray,  there  goes  a  rocket ; 

Hi,  Johnny,  look  out  for  the  shtick  !  " 
"  Confound  it,  sir  !     Those  are  my  feet,  sir  !  " 

"  Oh,  pa,  lift  me  up,  I  can't  see." 
41  Come  down  out  o'  that,  yez  young  blackguards  1 

Div  yez  want  to  be  killin'  the  tree  ?  " 
"  Hooray  !  look  at  that  ?  "     "Aint  it  bully  !  " 

"  It 's  stuck  ! "    "  No,  it  aint."    "  There  she  goes  !' 
"  I  wish  that  you'd  speak  to  this  man,  Fred, 

He 's  standing  all  over  my  toes." 
"  Take  down  that  umbrella  in  front  there  !  " 
"  My  !  aint  we  afraid  of  our  hat ! " 


PYRO  TECH  NIC  POL  YGL  O  T. 


"  Me  heart 's  fairly  broke  wid  yez  shovin'  — 

Have  done  now  —  what  would  yez  be  at  ?  " 
"  Jehiel,  neow  haint  this  jest  orful  ! 
I  'most  wish  I  hed  n't  a  come  ; 
Such  actions  I  never  —  one  would  think 

Folks  left  their  perliteness  to  hum." 
' '  Look  here,  now,  you  schoost  stop  dose  schovin'. " 
"  By  gar,  den,  get  out  from  ze  vay, 
You  stupide  Dootschmans,  vilain  cochon  "  — 
"  Kreuz  ! "  —  "  Peste  !  "  —  "  Donnerwetter  !  "  — 

"  Sacr-r-re  ! " 
"  Oh,  is  n't  that  cross  just  too  lovely  ! 

So  bright,  why  the  light  makes  me  wink  ! " 
"  Your  eyes,  dear,  are  "  —  "don't  be  a  goose,  Fred  ; 

What  do  you  suppose  folks  will  think?" 
Crash  !  Screech  !  "  Och  I'm  kilt !  "  —  "  Fred,  what  is 

it?" 

"  Branch  broken  — small  boy  come  to  grief." 
"  Boo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo  !     I  wants  mine  muzzer  !  " 
"  Look  out  there  !"    "Police!"    "  Hi,  stop  thief  ! 


PYROTECHNIC  POLYGLOT.  107 

"  Well,  father,  I  guess  it 's  all  over  ; 
Just  help  Nelly  down  off  the  stool." 

MORAL. 

SUNG  :  —  "  Mellican  piecee  fire  bully  !  " 
CHING  :  —  "  Mellican  man  piecee  fool." 


FISHING, 

i  i  T  T  ARRY,  where  have  you  been  all  morning?" 
"  Down  at  the  pool  in  the  meadow-brook." 
"  Fishing  ?  "     "  Yes,  but  the  trout  were  wary, 

Couldn't  induce  them  to  take  a  hook." 
"  Why,  look  at  your  coat !     You  must  have  fallen, 

Your  back  's  just  covered  with  leaves  and  moss." 
How  he  laughs  !    Good-natured  fellow  ! 
Fisherman's  luck  makes  most  men  cross. 

"  Nellie,  the  Wrights  have  called.     Where  were  you  ?* 
"  Under  the  tree,  by  the  meadow-brook 

Reading,  and  oh,  it  was  too  lovely  ; 
I  never  saw  such  a  charming  book." 

The  charming  book  must  have  pleased  her,  truly, 
There  's  a  happy  light  in  her  bright  young  eyes 


FISHING.  109 


And  she  hugs  the  cat  with  unusual  fervor, 
To  staid  old  Tabby's  intense  surprise. 

Reading  ?  yes,  but  not  from  a  novel. 

Fishing  !  truly,  but  not  with  a  rod. 
The  line  is  idle,  the  book  neglected  — 

The  water-grasses  whisper  and  nod. 
The  fisherman  bold  and  the  earnest  reader 

Sit  talking  —  of  what  ?     Perhaps  the  weather. 
Perhaps — no  matter  —  whate'er  the  subject, 

It  brings  them  remarkably  close  together. 

It  causes  his  words  to  be  softly  spoken, 

With  many  a  lingering  pause  between, 
The  while  the  sunbeams  chase  the  shadows 

Over  the  mosses,  gray  and  green. 
Blushes  are  needful  for  its  discussion, 

And  soft,  shy  glances  from  downcast  eyes, 
In  whose  blue  depths  are  lying  hidden 

Loving  gladness,  and  sweet  surprise. 


FISHING. 


Trinity  Chapel  is  gay  this  evening, 

Filled  with  beauty,  and  flowers,  and  light, 

A  captive  fisherman  stands  at  the  altar, 
With  Nellie  beside  him  all  in  white. 

The  ring  is  on,  the  vows  are  spoken, 

And  smiling  friends,  good  fortune  wishing, 

Tell  him  his  is  the  fairest  prize 

Ever  brought  from  a  morning's  fishing. 


NOCTURNE. 

O  UMMER  is  over,  and  the  leaves  are  falling, 

Gold,  fire-enamelled  in  the  glowing  sun  ; 
The  sobbing  pinetop,  the  cicada  calling 
Chime  men  to  vesper-musing,  day  is  done. 

The  fresh,  green  sod,  in  dead,  dry  leaves  is  hidden ; 

They  rustle  very  sadly  in  the  breeze  ; 
Some  breathing  from  the  past  comes,  all  unbidden, 

And  in  my  heart  stir  withered  memories. 

Day  fades  away  ;  the  stars  show  in  the  azure, 

Bright  with  the  glow  of  eyes  that  know  not  tears, 

Unchanged,  unchangeable,  like  God's  good  pleasure, 
They  smile  and  reck  not  of  the  weary  years. 

Men  tell  us  that  the  stars  it  knows  are  leaving 
Our  onward  rolling  globe,  and  in  their  place 


NOCTURNE. 


New  constellations  rise  —  is  death  bereaving 
The  old  earth,  too,  of  each  familiar  face  ? 

Our  loved  ones  leave  us  ;  so  we  all  grow  fonder 
Of  their  world  than  of  ours  ;  for  here  we  seem 

Alone  in  haunted  houses,  and  we  wonder 
"Which  is  the  waking  life,  and  which  the  dream. 


o 


AUTO-DA-FE. 
(HE  EXPLAINS.) 

H,  just  burning  up  some  old  papers, 

They  do  make  a  good  deal  of  smoke  : 
That 's  right,  Dolly,  open  the  window  ; 

They  '11  blaze  if  you  give  them  a  poke. 
I  've  got  a  lot  more  in  the  closet ; 

Just  look  at  the  dust !     What  a  mess ! 
Why,  read  it,  of  course,  if  you  want  to, 

It 's  only  a  letter,  I  guess. 

(SHE   READS.) 

Just  me,  and  my  pipe,  and  the  fire-light, 

Whose  mystical  circles  of  red 
Protect  me  alone  with  the  shadows  ; 

The  smoke-wreaths  engarland  my  head  ; 


OF  rnr; 

UNIVERSITY 


AUTO-DA-F&. 


And  the  strains  of  a  waltz,  half  forgotten, 

The  favorite  waltz  of  the  year, 
Played  softly  by  fairy  musicians, 

Chime  sweetly  and  low  on  my  ear. 

The  smoke-cloud  floats  thickly  around  me, 

All  perfumed  and  white,  till  it  seems 
A  bride-veil  magicians  have  woven 

To  honor  the  bride  of  my  dreams. 
Float  on,  dreamy  waltz,  through  my  fancies, 

My  thoughts  in  your  harmony  twine  ! 
Draw  near,  phantom  face,  in  your  beauty, 

Look  deep,  phantom  eyes,  into  mine. 

Sweet  lips  —  crimson  buds  half  unfolded  — 

Give  breath  to  the  exquisite  voice, 
That,  waking  the  strands  of  my  being 

To  melody,  bids  me  rejoice. 
Dream,  soul,  till  the  world's  dream  is  ended  ! 

Dream,  heart,  of  your  beautiful  past ! 
For  dreaming  is  better  than  weeping, 

And  all  things  but  dreams  at  the  last. 


AUTO-DA-FA.  115 


Change  rules  in  the  world  of  the  waking  — 

Its  laughter  aye  ends  in  a  sigh  ; 
Dreams  only  are  changeless  —  immortal  : 

A  love-dream  alone  cannot  die. 
Toil,  fools  !     Sow  your  hopes  in  the  furrows, 

Rich  harvest  of  failure  you  '11  reap  ; 
Life's  riddle  is  read  the  most  truly 

By  men  who  but  talk  in  their  sleep. 

(HE  REMONSTRATES). 

There,  stop  !     That'll  do  —  yes,  I  own  it  — 
But,  dear,  I  was  young  then,  you  know. 

I  wrote  that  before  we  were  married  ; 
Let 's  see  —  why,  it 's  ten  years  ago  ! 

You  remember  that  night,  at  Drake's  party, 
When  you  flirted  with  Dick  all  the  time  ? 

I  left  in  a  state  quite  pathetic, 

And  went  home  to  scribble  that  rhyme. 

\ 

\Vhat  a  boy  I  was  then  with  my  dreaming, 
And  reading  the  riddle  of  life  ! 


n6  AUTO-DA-F&, 

You  gave  a  good  guess  at  its  meaning 
The  night  you  said  "  Yes,"  little  wife. 

One  kiss  for  old  times'  sake,  my  Dolly  — 
That  did  n't  seem  much  like  a  dream. 

Holloa  !  something's  wrong  with  the  children  ! 
Those  young  ones  do  nothing  but  scream. 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

*\  TINE  leaves  rustled,  moonbeams  shone. 

Summer  breezes  softly  sighed  ; 
You  and  I  were  all  alone 
In  a  kingdom  fair  and  wide 
You,  a  Queen,  in  all  your  pride, 
I,  a  vassal,  by  your  side. 

Fairy  voices  in  the  leaves 

Ceaselessly  were  whispering : 
"T  is  the  time  to  garner  sheaves  — 
Let  your  heart  its  longing  sing  ; 
Place  upon  her  hand  a  ring  ; 
Then  our  Queen  shall  know  her  King." 

E'en  the  moonbeams  seemed  to  learn 
Speech  when  they  had  kissed  your  face. 


ii8  AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Passing  fair — my  lips  did  yearn 
To  be  moonbeams  for  a  space  — 

"  Lo,  'tis  fitting  time  and  place  ! 
Speak,  and  courage  will  find  grace." 

But  the  night  wind  murmured  low, 

Softly  brushing  back  your  hair, 
44  Look  into  her  face,  and  know 
That  she  is  a  jewel  rare, 
Worthy  of  a  monarch's  heir  ; 
Who  are  you  that  you  should  dare  ! " 

Hope  died  like  a  frost-touched  flower  ; 
But  through  all  the  coming  years, 

In  that  quiet  evening  hour, 

WThen  the  flowers  are  all  in  tears, 
When  the  heart  hath  hopes  and  fears, 
When  the  day-world  disappears. 

If  the  vine  leaves  rustle  low, 
If  the  moon  shine  on  the  sea, 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 


If  the  night  wind  softly  blow,  — 

Dreaming  of  what  may  not  be,  — 
Well  I  know  that  I  shall  see 
Your  sweet  eyes  look  down  on  me. 


REDUCTIO  AD  ABSURDUM. 

T    HAD  come  from  the  city  early 

That  Saturday  afternoon  ; 
I  sat  with  Beatrix  under  the  trees 
In  the  mossy  orchard  ;  the  golden  bees 
Buzzed  over  clover-tops,  pink  and  pearly ; 
I  was  at  peace,  and  inclined  to  spoon. 

We  were  stopping  awhile  with  mother, 

At  the  quiet  country  place 
Where  first  we  'd  met,  one  blossomy  May, 
And  fallen  in  love  —  so  the  dreamy  day 
Brought  to  my  memory  many  another 

In  the  happy  time  when  I  won  her  grace. 

Days  in  the  bright  Spring  weather, 
When  the  twisted,  rough  old  tree 


OF   THI' 

^ERSIT 


REDUCTIO  AD  ABSURDUM. 


Showered  down  apple-blooms,  dainty  and  sweet, 
That  swung  in  her  hair,  and  blushed  at  her  feet ; 
Sweet  was  her  face  as  we  lingered  together, 
And  dainty  the  kisses  my  love  gave  me, 

"  Dear  love,  are  you  recalling 

The  old  days,  too  ?  "  I  said. 
Her  sweet  eyes  filled,  and  with  tender  grace 
She  turned  and  rested  her  blushing  face 
Against  my  shoulder  ;  a  sunbeam  falling 

Through  the  leaves  above  us  crowned  her  head. 

And  so  I  held  her,  trusting 

That  none  was  by  to  see  ; 
A  sad  mistake  —  for  low,  but  clear, 
This  feminine  comment  reached  my  ear  : 
"  Married  for  ages  —  it 's  just  disgusting  — 

Such  actions — and,  Fred,  they've  got  our  tree  !* 


T 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  THE  SIRENS, 

he  debutantes  are  in  force  to-night, 

Sweet  as  their  roses,  pure  as  truth  ; 
Dreams  of  beauty  in  clouds  of  tulle  ; 

Blushing,  fair  in  their  guileless  youth. 
Flashing  bright  glances  carelessly  — 

Carelessly,  think  you  !     Wait  and  see 
How  their  sweetest  smile  is  kept  for  him 

Whom  "mother"  considers  a  good  parti. 

For  the  matrons  watch  and  guard  them  well  — 

Little  for  youth  or  love  care  they  ; 
The  man  they  seek  is  the  man  with  gold, 

Though  his  heart  be  black,  and  his  hair  be  gray. 
"  Nellie,  how  could  you  treat  him  so  ! 

You  know  very  well  he  is  Goldmore's  heir." 
"  Jennie,  look  modest !  Glance  down  and  blush, — 
Here  comes  papa  with  young  Millionaire." 


THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  SIRENS.  123 

On  a  cold,  gray  rock,  in  Grecian  seas, 

The  sirens  sit,  and  their  glamour  try  — 
Warm  white  bosoms  press  harps  of  gold, 

The  while  Ulysses'  ship  sails  by. 
Fair  are  the  forms  the  sailors  see, 

Sweet  are  the  songs  the  sailors  hear 
And  —  cool  and  wary,  shrewd  and  old, 

The  sirens'  mothers  are  watching  near, 

Whispering  counsel  —  "  Fling  back  your  hair, 

It  hides  your  shoulder."    "  Don't  sing  so  fast  !  * 
Darling,  do  n't  look  at  that  fair  young  man, 

Try  that  old  fellow  there  by  the  mast, 
His  arms  are  jewelled  "  —  let  it  go  I 

Too  bitter  all  this  for  an  idle  rhyme  ; 
But  sirens  are  kin  of  the  gods,  be  sure,     • 

And  change  but  little  with  lapse  of  time. 


PER  ASPERA  AD  ASTRA, 

A    CANVAS-BACK  duck,  rarely  roasted,  between  us, 

A  bottle  of  Chambertin,  worthy  of  praise  — 
Less  noble  a  wine  at  our  age  would  bemean  us  — 

A  salad  of  celery  en  mayonnaise, 
With    the    oysters    we  've    eaten,   fresh,    plump,   and 

delicious, 

Naught  left  of  them  now  but  a  dream  and  the  shells } 
No  better  souper  e'en  Lucullus  could  wish  us  — 
Why,  even  our  waiter  regards  us  as  swells. 

Your  dress  is  a  marvel,  your  jewels  show  finely, 
Your  friends  in  the  circle  all  envied  your  box  ; 

You  say  Lilli  Lehman  sang  quite  too  divinely  — 
I  know  I  can't  lose  on  that  last  deal  in  stocks. 

Without  waits  our  footman  to  call  for  our  carriage  — - 
Gad.  how  he  must  hate  us,  out  there  in  the  coM  !  — 


PER  AS  PER  A    AD  ASTRA.  123 

We  rode  in  a  hack  on  the  day  of  our  marriage, 
Number  two  forty-six  —  I  was  rolling  in  gold, 

For  I  'd  quite  fifty  dollars;  and  do  n't  you  remember 

We  drove  down  to  Taylor's,  a  long  cherished  dream: 
How  grandly  I  ordered  —  just  think,  in  December  ! — 

Some  cake,  and  two  plates  of  vanilla  ice-cream. 
And  how  we  enjoyed  it  !   Your  glance  was  the  proudest 

Among  the  proud  beauties,  your  face  the  most  fair  ; 
I  'm  rather  afraid,  too,  your  laugh  was  the  loudest  ; 

I  know  we  shocked  every  one  —  we  did  n't  care. 

Now  we  'd  care  a  great  deal  —  with  two  sons  at  college, 

And  daughters  just  out,  whose  sneers  make  you  wince, 
We  've  tasted  the  fruit  of  Society's  knowledge  — 

I  do  n't  think  we  Ve  quite  enjoyed  anything  since. 
All  through,  dear  ?    Now,  do  n't  wipe  your  mouth  with 
the  doily  \ 

They  're  really  not  careful  at  all  with  their  wine  ; 
It  was  n't  half  warmed  —  the  salad  was  oily  — 

And  I  do  n't  think  the  duck  was  remarkably  fine. 


o 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF   LOVE. 

II  !  he  was  a  student  of  mystic  lore ; 
And  she  was  a  soulful  girl 
All  nerves  and  mind,  of  the  cultured  kind 
The  paragon,  pride,  and  pearl. 

They  loved  with  a  neo-Concordic  love, 
Woofed  weirdly  with  wistful  woe. 

They  sat  in  a  glen,  remote  from  men, 
Their  converse  was  high  and  low. 

"  What  marvellous  words  of  marvellous  love, 

Speak  marvellous  souls  like  these  ?  " 
I  drew  me  nigh  till  their  faintest  sigh 
Was  heard  with  the  greatest  ease. 

"'  Oo's  'ittle  white  lammy  is  'oo?"  breathed  he ; 
"  'Oors.     'Oo's  lovey-dovey  is  'oo?" 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LOVE.  127 

'Oors  !  'Oors  !  Would  'oo  k'y  if  dovey  should  die  ?  " 
"  No'p  !  —  tause  'ittle  lammy'd  die  too." 

How  truthful  we  poets  !    The  "  language  of  Love* 

Is  a  phrase  we  employ  full  oft ; 
But  whenever  we  do,  we  prefix  thereto, 

You  've  noticed,  the  adjective  ' '  soft." 


UNIFORM  IN  STYLE  AND  PRICE,  IN  FREDERICK  A.  STOKE* 
COMPANY'S  NEW  SERIES  OF  VOLUMES  OF 

AMERICAN  VERSE. 

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author  of  "The  Bad  Habits  of  Good  Society"  ''''Mrs.  Hephas~ 
ius"  etc. 

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MADRIGALS  AND  CATCHES.  By  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman. 

THISTLE-DRIFT.     By  John  Vance  Cheney. 

WOOD  BLOOMS.     By  John  Vance  Cheney. 

OLD  AND  NEW  WORLD  LYRICS.    By  Clinton  Scollard. 

BETWEEN  TIMES.    By  Walter  Learned. 


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